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DEDICA TION. 



GEORGE K. INGELOW, 

YOUR LOVING SISTER 

OFFERS YOU THESE POEMS, PARTLY AS 

AN EXPRESSION OP HEB AFFECTION, PARTLY POR THE 

PLEASURE OF CONNECTING HER EFFORT 

WITH YOUR NAME. 

Kensington, Juue, lsG3. 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 

OF 

/ 

JEAN IISTGELOW 



REPEINTED FROM THE THREE-VOLUME ENGLISH 

EDITION, WITH MANY ADDITIONS AND 

BIOGEAPHICAL SKETCH. 



^,00 

/ 



5 ? 



3$^-^. 



NEW YORK: 40 East I4th Street. 

TIJOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY. 

BOSTON: 100 Purchase Street. 






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Copyright, 1894, 
By THOMAS Y. CKOWELL & CO. 



3/4Tv3 



CONTENTS. 



POEMS. PAGE. 

Divided 9 

Honors. — Parti 13 

Honors. — Part II 21 

Requiescat in Pace 31 

Supper at the Mill 3S 

Scholar and Carpenter 47 

The Star's Monument 68 

A Dead Year ^ . 81 

Reflections -written for the Portfolio Society 85 

The Letter L 88 

The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire (1571) Ill 

Afternoon at a Parsonage 116 



Songs of Seven: 

Seven times One. — Exultation .126 

Seven times Two. -—Romance 127 

Seven times Three. — Love 12S 

Seven times Four. — Maternity 12'.) 

Seven times Five. — Widowhood 130 

Seven times Six. — Giving in Marriage 131 

Seven times Seven. — Longing for Homo 132 

A Cottage in a Chine 131 

Persephone 138 

A Sea Song { .... 141 

Brothers, and a Sermon 142 

A Wedding Song 165 

The Four Bridges 106 

A Mother showing the Portrait of her Child 188 

Strife and Peace 193 

A STORY OF DOOM, AND OTHER POEMS. 

The Dreams that came True 199 

Bongs on the Voices of Birds : 

Introduction. — Child and Boatman 213 

The Nightingale heard by the Unsatisfied Heart 215 

Sand Marlins • 216 

V 



vi CONTENTS. 



FAG'S 

Poet in his Youth, and the Cuckoo Bird 2i3 

A Raven in a White Chine 223 

The Warbling of Blackbirds 225 

Sea-Mews in Winter Time 226 

Laurance 227 

Songs of the Night Watches: 

Introductory. — Apprenticed . .253 

The First Watch. — Tired 259 

The Middle Watch 265 

The Morning Watch 268 

Concluding Song of Dawn 270 

A Story of Doom 271 

CoNT^AbTED Songs : 

Sailing beyond Seas 348 

Remonstrance 349 

Song for the Night of Christ's Resurrection 350 

Song of Margaret 356 

Song of the Going Away 357 

A Lily and a Lute 358 

Gladys and her Island 363 

Songs with Preludes : 

Wedlock 391 

Regret 394 

Lamentation 395 

Dominion „ 397 

Friendship 400 



Winstanley 



402 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN, AND POEMS OF LOVE 
AND CHILDHOOD. 

The Monitions of the Unseen 415 

A Birthday Walk 433 

Not in Vain I Waited 435 

A Gleaning Song 436 

With a Diamond 437 

Fancy 437 

Compensation 438 

Looking Down 438 

Married Lovers . . 439 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 
441 

A Winter Song • 4J _. 

Binding Sheaves * .443 

Work ^ ^3 

Wishing 

To • "444 

On the Borders of Cannock Chase • 

The Mariner's Cave " 4 I 

A Reverie " 4 - - 

Defton Wood * * ' T- 7 

The Snowdrop Monument (in Lichfield Cathedrae) .... *>< 

An Ancient Chess King 4QQ 

Comfort in the Night ^ 

Though all Great Deeds * 

The Long White Seam * 

An Old Wife's Song " ^ 

Cold and Quiet }( ^ 

A Snow Mountain 4f . 



Si.ee i' 



465 



Promising 4GG 

Love 

Poems Written on the Deaths of three Children : 

Henry, aged eight years *Jj' 

Samuel, aged nine years ' 

Katie, aged five years • 



The Two Margarets: 

477 
I Margaret by the Mere Side 

, -l- v .... 400 

II. Margaret in the Xebec 

POEMS FROM "MOPSA THE FAIRY." 

505 

The Shepherd Lady 

Above the Clouds 50g 

Love's Thread of Gold • 5o8 

Failure ' 509 

One Morning, Oh! so Early .^ 

Tub Pays without Alloy 511 

Tub Leaves op Lign Aloes ' 

On the Locks by Aberdeen 

hers and Moss 

Sweet is Childhood ' ' f ^ 

The Gypsy's Selling Song ' 

My Fair Lady 



vin CONTENTS. 



PA UK. 

Sleep and Time 534 

Master, quoth the Auld Hound 514 

Like a Laverock in the Lift 515 

Bees and Other Fellow-crkatures 515 

Little Babe 510 

A Hand that Living Warmth disowns 517 

The Prince shall to the Chase again 517 

At One Again: 

I. Noonday 51S 

II. Sunset 519 

III. 'I he Dream 520 

IV. The Waking 521 

V. A Song 521 

VI. Lovers f22 

VII. Fathers 523 

Eosamund 524 

Echo and the Ferry 553 

Preludes to a Penny Reading 560 

Kismet 5S0 

Dora 584 

Speranza 585 

The Beginning 594 

In the Nursery 598 

The Australian Bell-bird 600 

Loss and Waste 633 

On a Picture 633 

The Sleep of Sigismund 634 

The Maid-Martyr 666 

A Vine-Arbor in the Far West 684 

Lovers at the Lake Side 687 

The White Moon wasteth 691 

An Arrow-slit (92 

Wendover 693 

The Lover pleads 694 

Song in Three Parts 695 

" If I forget Thee, O Jerusalem " 699 

Nature, for Nature's Sake 707 

Perdita 713 

Letters on Life and the Morning 719 

Notes 735 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 



Jean Ingelow was born in 1830, at Boston, Lincoln- 
shire, at the mouth of the river Witham. She was one 
of eleven children. Her father was a well-to-do banker 
at Suffolk ; her mother's family came originally from 
Aberdeenshire in Scotland; her great-grandfather was 
Primus of Scotland, — in other words, Bishop of Aber- 
deen. Jean Ingelow in several places speaks of her 
childhood : — 

" As a child," she writes to a friend, " I was very happy 
at times, and generally wondering at something. ... I 
was uncommonly like other children. ... I remember 
seeing a star, and that my mother told me of God, who 
lived up there and made the star. This was on a sum- 
mer evening. It was my first hearing of God, and made 
a great impression on my mind. I remember better than 
anything that certain ecstatic sensations of joy used to 
get hold of me, and that I used to creep into corners to 
think out my thoughts by myself. I was, however, ex- 
tremely timid, and easily overawed by fear. We had a 
lofty nursery with a bow-window that overlooked the 
river. My brother and I were constantly wondering at 
this river. The coming up of the tides, and the ships 
and the jolly gangs of towers ragging them on with a 
monotonous song, made a daily delight for us. The 
washing of the water, the sunshine upon it, and the reflec- 

i 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 



tions of the waves on our nursery ceiling, supplied hours 
of talk to us and days of pleasure." 

She learned to read when she was about three years 
old, but she was never sent to school. Her parents, 
having abundant means, spared her all hardships, and 
bestowed great care upon her education at home. Her 
mother, a clever woman of poetic nature, took the general 
charge of the education of her large family. A succession 
of private teachers and governesses labored to communi- 
cate the usual inoculation of learning, but Jean Ingelow 
regretfully confesses that she was too much inclined to 
make game of them. She writes : — 

" It w r as a happy, bright, joyous childhood ; there was 
an originality about us ; some of my brothers and sisters 
were remarkably clever, but all were droll, full of mirth, 
and could caricature well. We each had a most keen 
sense of the ridiculous. Two of the boys used to go to 
a clergyman near by for instruction, where there was a 
small printing-machine. We got up a little periodical of 
our own, and used all to write in it, my brothers' school- 
fellows setting up the type." 

Jean Ingelow was a rather shy and reserved nature. 
She was gifted with the poetic temperament. She began 
to write verses when very young. She slept in a large 
upper room, the windows of which had old-fashioned 
folding shutters. On the flat backs of these shutters she 
wrote verses and songs, and then folded them in. One 
day her mother discovered this new form of Sibylline 
leaves and was much surprised. Some of the poetry of 
that day has been preserved. 

During a visit to friends in Essex, she, and several 
young companions, wrote some short stories and sent 
them to The Youth's Magazine. Hers were signed 
"Orris." They were accepted and she was asked to 
write some more. 

" The Tales of Orris " were collected and published in 
18G0. Previously, in 1850, she had published anony- 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 



mously " A Rhyming Chronicle of Incidents and Feel- 
ings," and, the following year, a novel, entitled " Allerton 
and Dreux." 

After the death of her father the Ingelows moved to 
Upper Kensington and thence to Kensington. In 1863 
Miss Ingelow and her mother took a selection of her 
poems to Mr. Longman, who was at first doubtful, but 
after examining the work decided to bring them out. 
The first year four thousand copies were sold, and more 
than an edition a year has since appeared. Considerably 
over a hundred thousand copies have been sold in America 
alone. The English Press was unanimous in its praise. 
One paper called her the most gifted poetess of England 
since Mrs. Browning and Adelaide Procter. Among the 
most popular lyrics in this volume, and those by which 
her fame as a poet will be secured, are "Divided," "Songs 
of Seven," "Supper at the Mill," "Looking over a (Jute 
at a Mill," " The Wedding Song," " Honors," " The High 
Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire," " Brothers and a Ser- 
mon," " Winstanley," and " The Long White Seam." 
Mr. Stedman says of them : — 

" They sprang up suddenly and tunefully, as skylarks 
from the daisy-spangled, hawthorn-bordered meadows of 
Old England, with a blitheness then unknown, and in 
their idyllic underilights moved with the tenderest cur- 
rents of human life." 

" Studies for Stories " came out in 18G4. They were 
professedly written for young girls, but attracted atten- 
tion by their quiet humor, their gentle satire, and fidelity 
to nature. The Athenceum called them "Prose poems 
carefully meditated and exquisitely touched in by a 
teacher ready to sympathize with every joy and sorrow." 

In 1865 she published the " Stories told- to a Child." 
Mrs. Black says that, in consequence of the success of her 
first volume of poems, Mr. Strahan made an immediate 
application for any other work by the same pen, and 
accordingly her short tales signed "Orris " were collected 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 



and published under the title of " Stories told to a Child." 
There seems to be some mistake about this; but Jean 
Ingelow has been peculiarly unfortunate in regard to her 
biography ; scarcely two accounts agree as to the date of 
her birth, which may be found placed in 1820, 1825, 
1830, and 1832. 

One time Jean Ingelow was tempted to set the world 
right as to her biography and environment. An appre- 
ciative article appeared, in which " the Ingelow Mansion " 
was described vaguely as stationed on the sea-beach and 
flanked by two lighthouses, "between which the lonely 
child might have been seen to wander for hours together 
nursing her poetic dreams, dragging the long trails of sea- 
weed after her, and listening to the voice of the waves." 
Her friends urged her to " disclaim the solitary wander- 
ings and poetic dreams, and to describe the place cor- 
rectly." But she decided to let the matter drop. She 
wrote to a friend : — 

" I consider that an author should, during her life, be 
as much as possible impersonal. I never impart myself 
into my writings, and am much better pleased that others 
should feel an interest in me and wish to know something 
of me than that they should complain of egotism." 

She, however, gives a little touch of personal interest 
in a passage quoted by Mrs.^Black: "To a poetic nature 
expression is a necessity; but once expressed, the thought 
and feeling that inspired it may often be forgotten. I 
am sure I could not repeat one of my own poems from 
beginning to end just as I wrote it. I have a distinct 
theory, too, that one is not taught, one is born to it. I 
was never able to make a great effort in my life, but 
what I can do at all, I can do at once ; and having 
thought a good deal on any subject I know very little 
more than I did at first. Things come to me without 
striving ; besides I am quite unromantic. I never wrote 
in a hurry. We might all be laughing and talking 
together, yet if I went up to my room and sat alone, 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 5 

I could at once write in a most sad and melancholy 
strain. I was not studious as a child, though I remember 
a ^great epoch in my life was reading < The Pilgrim's 
Progress ' when I was seven years old, and I was per- 
fectly well able to perceive the deep imaginative powers 
of it; but I always wanted to study what was not in 
books." 

The Ingelows were evangelica] in religion, though not 
narrow. Miss Ingelow rather prides herself on having 
never entered a theatre ; but her reason may be respected. 
Her parents never took the children, and she slays away 
"out of habit and affectionate respect for their memory." 
Instead of the theatre they had travel. 

" We had many pleasures and advantages," she says. 
"There was do dulnefls or gloom about our homo, and 
everything seemed to give occasion for mirth. We had 
many trips abroad, too ; indeed, we spent most winters 
on the Continent. I made an excursion with a brother 
who is an ecclesiastical architect, and in this way I visited 
every cathedral in Fiance." 

"Poor Mat" was published in 18GG, and the next year 
came the semi-epic "Story of Doom," in which the chief 
characters are Noah, Japhet, the Giants, and the Arch- 
Fiend. Among the better known of the "Other Poems." 
which accompanied "A Story of Doom," arc "The 
Dreams that conic True," " Songs on the Voices of Birds," 
"Songs of the Nightwatches," "Gladys and Her Island," 
"Laurance," and "Contrasted Songs." 

In the two years following she published "A Sister's 
Bye-Hours" and "Mopsa the Fairy," which has been 
called " A poem in prose for the use of children." 

"Off the Skelligs," published in 1872, was her first 
important novel. There are brilliant and beautiful de- 
scriptions, and the scenery is painted with a poet's pencil. 
The episode of the burning ship and the rescue of the 
passengers is fine. Hut the work is popular rather than 
artistic. Tin- same may be said of its more tragic sequel, 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 



"Fated to be Free," which followed three years later. 
This opens with a picturesque description of an oM 
manor-house, and introduces a family overshadowed % 
some mysterious misfortune. 

" I am told," she writes in her introduction, " that ' Off 
the Skelligs ' and ' Fated to be Free ' are peculiar ; and I 
feel that they must be so, for most stories of human life 
are, or at least aim at being, works of art, — selections of 
interesting portions of life, and fitting incidents, put to- 
gether and presented as a picture is ; and I have not aimed 
at producing a work of art at all, but a. piece of nature." 

" Sarah de Berenger " followed in 1879, and " Don 
John " appeared anonymously in the " No Name Series " 
in 1881. 

Jean Ingelow's poems, as collected, leave a distinct 
impression upon the mind. They are not faultless. She 
is fond of cloudy obscurities, both of language and 
thought ; she affects archaic and obsolete words ; her 
lines often halt and her rhymes are too frequently imper- 
fect; but after the severest criticism the reader is almost 
certain to be left under the spell of a vigorous vitality, 
a sweet and wholesome imagination, a sense of complete- 
ness, swallowing up and atoning for the faults which 
might have been noticed here ami there in detail. One 
may be even annoyed by these perverse Windings of sim- 
plicity, but the poem is apt to challenge attention and 
compel one to read to the end. And the end generally 
starts a sympathetic tear. Though pathetic, and often 
sad, Miss Ingelow's poems are not morbid. Their popu- 
larity is perhaps due to their homely naturalness. They 
are also marked by decided originality and quaintness; 
merits that tend to degenerate into extravagance and 
obscurity unless kept strictly in hand. 

It is by her lyrics, however, that Jean Ingelow is sure 
of immortality. If she had written nothing but the 
" Songs of Seven " and " The High Tide," that would have 
been assured her. And when we take into consideration 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 



how few poems — in some cases only one — keep alive 
the fame of past p|ets, it will be found that Jean Inge- 
low has contributed an unusual number of deathless 
lyrics to the song-treasures of our common English 
tongue. 

Jean Ingelow's health is never very robust, and she 
works only two or three hours in the morning. She 
generally spends her winters in the south of Europe. 
Her mother died fourteen or fifteen years ago, and she 
keeps house for two of her brothers in a handsome, 
square, two-and-a-half-story stone house, cream colored, 
and standing by itself in Kensington. In front there 
are handsome grounds, — a garden filled with shrubs and 
graced by chestnut and almond trees ; and in the rear 
a comfortable lawn bordered with flowers and conserva- 
tories. 

The entrance-hall, says a recent visitor, " opens into 
a spacious, old-fashioned drawing-room of Italian style 
on the right. Large and lofty is this bright, cheerful 
room. A harp, on which Miss Ingelow, and her mother 
before her, played right well, stands in one corner. There 
is a grand pianoforte opposite, for she was a good musi- 
cian and had a remarkably fine voice in earlier years. 
On the round table in the deep bay-windows in front are 
many books, various specimens of Tangiers pottery, and 
some tall plants of arum-lilies in flower. The great 
glass doors, draped with curtains at the further end, open 
into a large conservatory, where Miss Ingelow often sits 
in summer. It is laid down with matting and rugs, and 
standing here and there are flowering plants and two 
fine araucarias. The verandah-steps on the left lead into 
a large and well-kept garden with bright green lawn, at 
the end of which, through the trees, may be discerned 
a large stretch of greenhouses and a view beyond of 
the great trees in the grounds of Holland Park. On the 
corresponding side of the house at the back is the 
billiard-room, which is Mr. Ingelow's study, leading into 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 



an ante-room, and in the front is the dining-room, where 
the author's literary labors are carried! on." 

Miss Ingelow is extremely charitable and fond of 
children. Her life, like her writings, is devoted to doing 
good. Viewed from every standpoint hers has been 
an admirable career, pleasant to contemplate, and in- 
structive to study. 

N. H. D. 

Boston, 1894. 



POEMS. 



DIVIDED. 



i. 

An empty sky, a world of heather, 
Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom ; 

We two among them wading together, 
Shaking out honey, treading perfume. 

Crowds of bees are giddy with clover, 
Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet, 

Crowds of larks at their matins hang over 
Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet. 

Flu.sheth the rise with her purple favor, 
Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring, 

'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver, 
Lightly settle, and sleepily swing. 

We two walk till the purple dieth 

And short dry grass under foot is brown, 

But one little streak at a distance lieth 
Green like a ribbon to prank the down. 

ii. 

Over the grass we stepped unto it, 

And God He knoweth how blithe we were ! 

Never a voice to bid us eschew it : 

Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair ! 



io D TV WED. 



Hey the green ribbon ! we kneeled beside it, 
We parted the grasses dewy and sheen ; 

Drop over drop there filtered and slided 
A tiny bright beck that trickled between. 

Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us, 
Light was our talk as of faery bells — 

Faery wedding-bells faintly rung to us 
Down in their fortunate parallels. 

Hand in hand, while the sun peered over, 

We lapped the grass on that youngling spring : 

Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover, 
And said, " Let us follow it westering." 

in. 

A dapple sky, a world of meadows, 
Circling above us the black rooks lly 

Forward, backward ; lo, their dark shadows 
Flit on the blossoming tapestry — 

Flit on the beck, for her long grass parteth 
As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back ; 

And, lo, the sun like a lover darteth 

His flattering smile on her wayward track. 

Sing on ! we sing in the glorious weather 
Till one steps over the tiny strand, 

So narrow, in sooth, that still together 
On either brink we go hand in hand. 

The beck grows wider, the hands must sever. 

On either margin, our songs all done, 
We move apart, while she singeth ever, 

Taking the course of the stooping sun. 

He prays, " Come over " — I may not follow ; 
I cry, " Return "—but he cannot come : 



DIVIDED. 



We speak, we laugh, bat with voices hollow ; 
Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb. 



IV. 

A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer, 

A little talking of outward things : 
The careless beck is a merry dancer, 

Keeping sweet time to the air she sings. 

A little pain when the beck grows wider ; 

" Cross to me now — for her wavelets swell : " 
*' I ma} T not cross" — and the voice beside her 

Faintly reacheth, though heeded well. 

No backward path ; ah ! no returning ; 

No second crossing that ripple's flow : 
*' Come to me now, for the west is burning ; 

Come ere it darkens ; " — " Ah, no ! ah, no 1 " 

Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching — 
The beck grows wider and swift and deep : 

Passionate words as of one beseeching — 

The loud beck drowns them ; we walk, and weep 



A yellow moon in splendor drooping, 
A tired queen with her state oppressed, 

Low by rushes and swordgrass stooping, 
Lies she soft on the waves at rest* 

The desert heavens have felt her sadness ; 

Her earth will weep her some dewy tears ; 
The wild beck ends her tune of gladness, 

And goeth stilly as soul that fears. 



,2 DIVIDED. 

We two walk on in our grassy places 
On either marge of the moonlit flood, 

With the moon's own sadness in our faces, 
Where joy is withered, blossom and bud. 

VI. 

A shady freshness, chafers whirring, 

A little piping of leaf-hid birds ; 
A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring, 

A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds. 

Bare glassy slopes, where kids are tethered ; 

Round valleys like nests all ferny -lined ; 
Hound hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered, 

Swell high in their freckled robes behind. 

A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver, 

When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide ; 

A flashing edge for the milk-white river, 
The beck, a river — with still sleek tide. 



Broad and white, and polished as silver, 
On she goes under fruit laden trees ; 

Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver, 
And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties. 

Glitters the dew and shines the river, 
Up comes the lily and dries her bell ; 

But two are walking apart forever, 

And wave their hands for a mute farewell. 

VII. 

A braver swell, a swifter sliding; 

The river hasteth, her banks recede : 
Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding 

Bear down the lily and drown the reed. 



DIVIDED. 



Stately prows are rising and bowing 
(Shouts of mariners winnow the air), 

And level sands for banks endowing 

The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair. 

While, O my heart ! as white sails shiver 

And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide, 

How hard to follow, with lips that quiver, 
That moving speck on the far-off side ! 

Farther, farther — I see it — know it — 

My eyes brim over, it melts away : 
Only my heart to my heart shall show it 

As I walk desolate day by day. 

VIII. 

And yet I know past all doubting, truly — 
And knowledge greater than grief can dim— « 

I know, as he loved, he will love me duly — 
Yea, better — e'en better than I love him. 

And as I walk b} T the vast calm river, 

The awful river so dread to see, 
I say, u Thy breadth and thy depth forever 

Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me." 



HONORS. — PART I. 

A Scholar is musing on his Want of Success. 

To strive — and fail. Yes, I did strive and fail, 
I set mine eyes upon a certain night 

To find a certain, star — and could not hail 
With them its deep-set light. 



i 4 HONORS. 



Fool that I was ! I loill rehearse my fault : 
I, wingless, thought myself on high to lift 

Among the 'winged — / set these feet that halt 
To run against the swift. 

And yet this man, that loved me so, can write — 
That loves me, I would say, can let me see ; 

Or fain would have me think he counts bid light 
These Honors lost to me. 



\Tlie Letter of his Friend.'] 

44 What are they ? that old house of yours which gave 
Such welcomes oft to me the sunbeams fall 

Still clown the squares of blue and white which pave 
Its hospitable hall. 

44 A brave old house ! a garden full of bees, 
Large dropping poppies, and queen hollyhocks, 

With butterflies for crowns — tree peonies 
And pinks and goldilocks. 

44 Go, when the shadow of your house is long 
Upon the garden — when some new-waked bird 

Pecking and fluttering, chirps a sudden song, 
And not a leaf is stirred ; 

u But every one drops dew from either edge 

Upon its fellow, while an amber ray 
Slants up among the tree-tops like a wedge 

Of liquid gold — to play 

" Over and under them, and so to fall 
Upon that lane of water lying below — > 

That piece of sky let in, that you do call 
A pond, but which I know 



HONORS. 15 

" To be a deep and wondrous world ; for I 

Have seen the trees within it — marvellous things 

So thick no bird betwixt their leaves could Hy 
But she would smita her wings ; — 

tk Go there, I say ; stand at the water's brink, 
And shoals of spotted grayling you shall see 

Basking between the shadows — look, and think 
' This beauty is for me ; 

" ' For me this freshness in the morning hours ; 

For me the water's clear tranquillity ; 
For me that soft descent of chestnut flowers ; 

The cushat's cry for me. 

" ' The lovely laughter of the windswayed wheat ; 

The easy slope of yonder pastoral hill ; 
The sedgy brook whereby the red kine meet 

And wade and drink their fill.' 

" Then saunter down that terrace whence the sea 
All fair with wing-like sails 3-011 may discern ; 

Be glad, and say, 'This beauty is for me — 
A thing to love and learn. 

" ' For me the bounding in of tides ; for me 
The lying bare of sands when they retreat ; 

The purple flush of calms, the sparkling glee 
When waves and sunshine meet.' 

41 So, after gazing, homeward turn, and mount 
To that long chamber in the roof ; there tell 

Your heart the laid-up lore it holds to count 
And prize and ponder well. 

" The lookings onward of the race before 
It had a past to make it look behind ; 

Its reverent wonders, and its doubtings sore, 
Its adorations blind. 



10 HONORS. 



" The thunder of its war-songs, and the glow 
Of chants to freedom b}' the old world sung; 

The sweet love cadences that long ago 
Dropped from the old world tongue. 

" And then this new- world lore that takes account 
Of tangled star-dust ; maps the triple whirl 

Of blue and red and argent worlds that mount 
And greet the Irish Earl ; 

44 O float across the tube that Herschel sways, 
Like pale-rose chaplets, or like sapphire mist; 

Or hang or droop along the heavenly wa} r s, 
Like scarfs of amethyst. 

44 O strange it is and wide the new- world lore, 
For next it treateth of our native dust ! 

Must dig out buried monsters, and explore 
The green earth's fruitful crust ; 

" Must write the story of her seething youth — 
How lizards paddled in her luke-warm seas ; 

Must show the cones she ripened, and forsooth 
Count seasons on her trees ; 

44 Must know her weight, and pry into her age, 
Count her old beach lines by their tidal swell ; 

Her sunken mountains name, her craters gauge, 
Her cold volcanoes tell ; 

44 And treat her as n ball, that one might pass 
From this hand to the other — such a ball 

As he could measure with a blade of grass, 
And say it was but small. 

14 Honors ! O friend, I pray you bear with me : 
The grass hath time to grow in meadow lands, 



HONORS. 17 



And leisurely the opal murmuring sea 
Breaks on her yellow sands ; 

"And leisurely the ring-dove on her nest 

Broods till her tender chick will peck the shell ; 

And leisurely down fall from ferny crest 
The dew-drops on the well ; 

44 And leisurely your life and spirit grew, 
With yet the time to grow and ripen free : 

No judgment past withdraws that boon from you, 
Nor granteth it to me. 

*■ Still must I plod, and still in cities moil ; 

From precious leisure, learned leisure far, 
Dull my best self with handling common soil ; 

Yet mine those honors are. 

44 Mine they are called ; they are a name which means 
4 This man had steady pulses, tranquil nerves; 

Here, as in other fields, the most he gleans 
Who works and never swerves. 

*' 4 We measure not his mind ; we cannot tell 

What lieth under, over, o r beside 
The test we put him to : he doth excel, 

We know, where he is tried ; 

44 4 But, if he boasts some further excellence — 

Mind to create as well as to attain ; 
To sway his peers by golden eloquence. 

As wind doth shift a fane ; 

44 ' To sing among the poets — we are naught: 

We cannot drop a line into that sea 
And read its fathoms off, nor gauge a thought, 

Nor map a simile. 



HONORS. 



lk 'It may be of all voices sublunar 

The only one he echoes we did try ; 
AVc may have come upon the only star 

That twinkles in his sky.' 

'* And so it was with me." 

false my friend I 

False, false, a random charge, a blame undue: 
Wrest not fair reasoning to a crooked end: 

False, false, as you are true! 

But I read on : " And so it was with me ; 

Your golden constellations lying apart 
They neither hailed nor greeted heartily, 

Nor noted on their chart. 

" And yet to you and not to me belong 

Those finer instincts that, like second sight 

And hearing, catch creation's under-song, 
And see by inner light. 

•' You are a well, whereon I, gazing, see 
Reflections of the upper heavens — a well 

From whence come deep, deep echoes up to me — « 
Some unclerwave's low swell. 

u I cannot soar into the heights you show, 
Nor dive among the deeps that you reveal ; 

But it is much that high things are to know, 
That deep things are to feel. 

" 'Tis yours, not mine, to pluck out of your breast 
Some human truth, whose workings recondite 

Were unattired in words, and manifest 
And hold it forth to light, 

11 And cry, ' Behold this thing that I have found.' 
And though they knew not of it till that day, 



HONORS. 19 



Nor should have clone with no man to expound 
Its meaning, yet they say, 

tw ' We do accept it : lower than the shoals 
We skim, this diver went, nor did create, 

But find it for us deeper in our souls 
Then we can penetrate.' 

" You were to me the world's interpreter, 

The man that taught me Nature's unknown tongue, 

And to the notes of her wild dulcimer 
First set sweet words and sung. 

" And what am I to you? A steady hand 
To hold, a steadfast heart to trust withal ; 

Merely a man that loves you, and will stand 
By you, whate'er befall. 

" But need we praise his tendance tutelar 

Who feeds a flame that warms him? Yet f tis true 

I love you for the sake of what you are, 
And not of what you do : — 

" As heaven's high twins, whereof in Tyrian blue 
The one revolveth ; through his course immense 

Might love his fellow of the damask hue, 
For like, and difference. 

*<• p or different pathways ever more decreed 

To intersect, but not to interfere ; 
For common goal, two aspects, and one speed, 

One centre and one year ; 

" For deep affinities, for drawings strong, 
That by their nature each must needs exert ; 

For loved alliance, and for union long, 
That stands before desert. 



20 



HONORS. 



" And yet desert makes brighter not the less, 
For nearest his own star he shall not fail 

To think those rays unmatched for nobleness, 
That distance counts but pale. 

" Be pale afar, since still to me you shine, 

And must while Nature's eldest law shall hold ; " — . 

Ah, there's the thought which makes his random line 
Dear as refinkl gold ! 

T/i en shall I drink this draught of oxymel, 

Part sweet, part sharp ? Myself o'erprised to know 

Is sharp : the cause is siveet, and truth to tell 
Few would that cause forego, 

Which is, that this of all the men on earth 

Doth love me well enough to count me great — 
To think my soul and his of equal girth — 

liberal estimate I 

And yet it is so; he is bound to me, 

For human love makes aliens near of kin; 
By it I rise, there is equality: 

1 rise to thee, my tivin. 

" Take courage " — courage ! ay, my purple peer. 

I will take courage; for thy Tyrian rays 
Refresh me to the heart, and strangely dear 

And healing is thy praise. 

" Take courage " quoth he, ^ and respect the mind 
Your Maker gave, for good your fate fnlfi] ; 

The fate round many hearts }^our own to wind." 
Twin soul, I will I I will I 



HONORS. 2 1 



HONORS.— PART II. 

The Answer. 

As one who, journeying, checks the rein in haste 
Because a chasm doth yawn across his way 

Too wide for leaping, and too steeply faced 
For climber to essay — 

As such an one, being brought to sudden stand, 
Doubts all his foregone path if 'twere the true, 

And turns to this and then to the other hand 
As knowing not what to do, — 

So I, being checked, am with my path at strife 

Which led to such a chasm, and there doth end. 
False path ! it cost me priceless years of life, 
My well-beloved friend. 

There fell a flute when Ganymede went up — 
The flute that he was wont to play upon: 

It dropped beside the jonquil's milk-white cup, 
And freckled cowslips wan — 

Dropped from his heedless hand when, dazed and 
mute, 

lie sailed upon the eagle's quivering wing, 
Aspiring, panting — ay, it dropped — the flute 

Erewhile a cherished thing. 

Among the delicate grasses and the bells 

Of crocuses that spotted a rill side, 
I ] licked up such a flute, and its clear swells 

To my young lips replied. 



HONORS. 



I played thereon, and its response was sweet ; 

But, lo, they took from me that solacing reed. 
" O shame ! " they said, " such music is not meet ; 

Go up like Ganymede. 

'•' Go up, despise these humble grassy things, 
Sit on the golden edge of yonder cloud." 

Alas ! though ne'er for me those eagle wings 
Stooped from their eyrie proud. 

My flute ! and flung away its echoes sleep ; 

But as for me, my life-pulse beateth low ; 
And like a last year's leaf enshrouded deep 

Under the drifting snow, 

Or like some vessel wrecked upon the sand 
Of torrid swamps, with all her merchandise, 

And left to rot betwixt the sea and land, 
My helpless spirit lies. 

Ruing, I think for what then was I made ; 

What end appointed for — what use designed? 
Now let me right this heart that was bewrayed — 

Unveil these eyes gone blind. 

My well-beloved friend, at noon to-day 
Over our cliffs a white mist lay unfurled, 

So thick, one standing on their brink might say, 
Lo, here doth end the world. 

A white abyss beneath, and naught beside ; 

Yet, hark ! a cropping sound not ten feet down ; 
Soon I could trace some browsing lambs that hied 

Through rock-paths cleft and brown. 

And here and there green tufts of grass peered through 
Salt lavender, and sea thrift ; then behold, 

The mist, subsiding L 'v r er, bared to view 
A beast of giant mould. 



HONORS. 



She seemed a great sea monster lying content 
With all her cubs about tier : but deep — deep- 

The subtle mist went floating ; its descent 
Showed the world's end was steep. 

It shook, it melted, shaking more, till, lo, 

The sprawling monster was a rock ; her brood 

Were boulders, whereon seamews white as snow 
Sat watching for their food. 

Then once again it sank, its day was done : 
Part rolled away, part vanished utterly, 

And glimmering softly under the white sun, 
Behold ! a great white sea. 

O that the mist which veileth my To-come 
Would so dissolve and yield unto mine eyes 

A worthy path ! I'd count not wearisome 
Long toil, nor enterprise. 

But strain to reach it ; ay, with wrestlings stout 
And hopes that even in the dark will grow 

(Like plants in dungeons, reaching feelers out), 
And ploddings wary and slow. 

Is there such path already made to fit 
The measure of my foot? It shall atone 

For much, if I at length may light on it 
And know it for mine own. 

But is there none ? why, then 'tis more than well : 
And glad at heart myself will hew one out, 

Let me be only sure ; for, sooth to tell, 
The sorest dole is doubt — 

Doubt, a blank twilight of the heart, which mars 
All sweetest colors in its dimness same; 

A soul-mist, through whose rifts familiar stars 
Beholding, we misname. 



24 HONORS. 



A ripple on the inner sea, which shakes 
Those images that on its breast reposed ; 

A fold upon the wind-swayed flag, that breaks 
The motto it disclosed. 

doubt ! O doubt ! I know my destiny ; 

I feel thee fluttering bird-like in my breast ; 

1 cannot loose, but I will sing to thee, 
And flatter thee to rest. 

Tliere is no certainty, " my bosom's guest," 
No proving for the things whereof ye wot ; 

For, like the dead to sight uu manifest, 
They are, and they are not. 

But surely as they are, for God is truth, 
And as they are not, for we saw them die, 

So surely from the heaven drops light for youth, 
If youth will walk thereby. 

And can I see this light? It may be so ; 

" But see it thus and thus," my fathers said. 
The living do not rule this world ; ah, no ! 

It is the dead, the dead. 

Shall I be slave to every noble soul, 

Study the dead, and to their spirits bend ; 

Or learn to read my own heart's folded scroll, 
And make self-rule my end ? 

Thought from withoztt — O shall I take on trust, 
And life from others modelled steal or win ; 

Or shall I heave to light, and clear of rust 
My true life from within. 

O, let me be myself ! But where, O where, 
Under this heap of precedent, this mound 

Of customs, modes, and maxims, cumbrance rare. 
Shall the Myself be found ? 



HONORS. 25 



O thou Myself, thy fathers thee debarred 
None of their wisdom, - but their folly came 

[Therewith ; they smoothed thy path, but made it hard 
For thee to quit the same. 

With glosses they obscured God's natural truth, 
And with tradition tarnished His revealed ; 

With vain protections they endangered youth, 
With layings bare they sealed. 

What aileth thee, myself? Alas ! thy hand* 
Are tired with old opinions — heir and son, 

Thou hast inherited thy father's lauds 
And all his debts thereon. 

O that some power would give me Adam's eyes ! 

O for the straight simplicity of Eve ! 
For I see naught, or grow, poor foul, too wise 

With seeing to believe. 

Exemplars may be heaped until they hide 

The rules that they were made to render plain ; 

Love may be watched, her nature to decide, 
Until love's self doth wane. 

Ah me ! and when forgotten and foregone 
We leave the learning of departed days, 

And cease the generations past to con, 
Their wisdom and their ways — 

When fain to learn we lean into the dark, 
And grope to feel the lloor of the abyss, 

Or find the secret boundary lines which mark 
Where soul and matter kiss — 

Fair world ! these puzzled souls of ours grow weak 
With beating their bruised wings against the rim 

That bounds their utmost flying, when they seek 
The distant and the dim. 



2 6 HONORS. 



We pant, we strain like birds against their wires ; 

Are sick to reach the vast and the beyond ; — 
And what avails, if still to our desires 

Those far-off gulfs respond ? 

Contentment comes not therefore ; still there lies 
An outer distance when the first is hailed, 

And still for ever yawns before oilr eyes 
An utmost — that is veiled. 

Searching those edges of the universe, 
We leave the central fields a fallow part ; 

To feed the eve more precious things amerce, 
And starve the darkened heart. 

Then all goes wrong : the old foundations rock, 
One scorns at him of old who gazed unshod ; 

One striking with a pickaxe thinks the shock 
Shall move the seat of God. 

A little way, a very little way 

(Life is so short), they dig into the rind, 
And they are very sorry, so they say, — 

Sorry for what they find. 

But truth is sacred — ay, and must be told : 
There is a story long beloved of man ; 

We must forego it, for it will not hold — 
Nature had no such plan. 

And then, " if God hath said it," some should cry 
" We have the story from the fountain head : ** 

Why, then, what better than the old reply, 
The first "Yea, iiatii God said?" 

The garden, O the garden, must it go, 

Source of our hope and our most dear regret? 

The ancient story, must it no more show 
How men may win it yet? 



HONORS. 27 



And all upon the Titan child's decree, 
The baby science, born but yesterday, 

That in its rash unlearned infancy 
With shells and stones at play, 

And delving in the outworks of this world, 
And little crevices that it could reach, 

Discovered certain bones laid up, and furled 
Under an ancient beach, 

And other waifs that lay to its young mind 
Some fathoms lower than they ought to lie, 

By gain whereof it could not fail to find 
Much proof of ancientry, 

Hints at a pedigree withdrawn and vast, 
Terrible deeps, and old obscurities, 

Or soulless origin, and twilight passed 
In the primeval seas, 

Whereof it tells, as thinking it hath been 
Of truth not meant for man inheritor ; 

As if this knowledge Heaven had ne'er foreseen 
And not provided for ! 

Knowledge ordained to live ! although the fate 
Of much that went before it was — to die, 

And be called ignorance by such as wait 
Till the next drift comes by. 

O marvellous credulity of man ! 

If God indeed kept secret, couldst thou know 
Or follow up the mighty Artisan 

Unless He willed it so? 

And canst thou of the Maker think in sooth 
That of the Made He shall be found at fault, 

And dream of wresting from Him hidden truth 
By force or by assault? 



28 HONORS. 



But if he keeps not secret — if thine eves 
He openeth to His wondrous work of late — 

Think how in soberness thy wisdom lies, 
And have the grace to wait. 

Wait, nor against the half-learned lesson fret, 
Nor chide at old belief as if it erred, 

Because thou canst not reconcile as yet 
The Worker and the word. 

Either the Worker did in ancient days 

Give us the word, His tale of love and might ; 

(And if in truth He gave it us, who says 
He did not give it right?) 

Or else He gave it not, and then indeed 

AVe know not if He is — by whom our years 

Are portioned, who the orphan moons doth lead, 
And the unfathered spheres. 

We sit unowned upon our burial sod, 

And know not whence we come or whose we be, 
Comfortless mourners for the mount of God, 

The rocks of Calvary : 

Bereft of heaven, and of the long-loved page 

Wrought us by some who thought with death to cope ; 
Despairing comforters, from age to age 
Sowing the seeds of hope : 

Gracious deceivers, who have lifted us 

Out of the slough where passed our unknown youth ; 
Beneficent liars, who have gifted us 

With sacred love of truth ! 

Farewell to them : yet pause ere thou unmoor 
And set thine ark adrift on unknown seas ; 

How wert thou bettered so, or more secure 
Thou, and thy destinies! 



HONORS. 29 



And if thou searchest, and art made to fear 
Facing of unread riddles dark and hard, 

And mastering not their majesty austere, 
Their meaning locked and barred : 

How would it make the weight and wonder less, 
If, lifted from immortal shoulders down, 

The worlds were cast on seas of emptiness 
in realms without a crown, 

And (if there were no God) were left to rue 

Dominion of the air and of the fire? 
Then if there be a God, " Let God be true, 

And every man a liar." 

But as for me, I do not speak as one 
That is exempt : I am with life at feud : 

My heart reproacheth me, as there were none 
Of so small gratitude ; 

Wherewith shall I console thee, heart o' mine, 
And still thy yearning and resolve thy doubt. 

That which I know, and that which I divine, 
Alas ! have left thee out. 

T have aspired to know the might of God, 
As if the story of His love was furled, 

Nor sacred foot the grasses e'er had trod 
Of this redeemed world: — 

Have sunk my thoughts as lead into the deep, 
To grope for that abyss whence evil grew, 

And spirits of ill, with eyes that cannot weep, 
Hungry and desolate flew ; 

As if their legions did not one day crowd 

The death-pangs of the Conquering Good to see ! 

As if a sacred head had never bowed 
In death for man — for me ; 



3 o HONORS. 



Nor ransomed back the souls beloved, the sons 
Of men, from thraldom with the nether kings 

111 that dark country where those evil ones 
Trail their unhallowed wings. 

And didst Thou love the race that loved not Thee, 
And didst Thou take to heaven a human brow? 

Dost plead with man's voice by the marvellous sea? 
Art Thou his kinsman now ? 

O God, kinsman loved, but not enough ! 

man, with eyes majestic after death, 
Whose feet have toiled along our pathways rough, 

Whose lips drawn human breath ! 

By that one likeness which is ours and Thine, 
By that one nature which doth hold us kin, 

By that high heaven where, sinless, Thou dost shine 
To draw us sinners in, 

By Thy last silence in the judgment-hall, 

By long foreknowledge of the deadly tree, 
By darkness, by the wormwood and the gall, 

1 pray Thee visit me. 

Come, lest this heart should, cold and cast away, 
Die ere the guest adored she entertain — 

Lest eyes which never saw Thine earthly day 
Should miss Thy heavenly reign. 

Come weary-eyed from seeking in the night 

Thy wanderers strayed upon the pathless wold, 

Who wounded, dying, cry to Thee for light, 
And cannot find their fold. 

And deign, Watcher, with the sleepless brow, 
Pathetic in its yearning — deign reply: 

Is there, O is there aught that such as Thou 
Wouldst take from such as I ? 



REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 



Are there no briars across Thy pathway thrust? 

Are there no thorns that compass it about? 
Nor any stones that Thou wilt deign to trust 

iVIy hands to gather out? 

O, if thou wilt, and if such bliss might be, 
It were a cure for doubt, regret, delay — 

Let my lost pathway go — what aileth me ? — 
There is a better way. 

What though unmarked the happy workman toil, 
And break un thanked of man the stubborn clod ? 

It is enough, for sacred is the soil, 
Dear are the hills of God. 

Far better in its place the lowliest bird 

Should sing aright to Him the lowliest song,* 

Than that a seraph strayed should take the word 
And sing his glory wrong. 

Friend, it is time to work. I say to thee, 
Thou dost all earthly good by much excel: 

Thou and God's blessing are enough for me : 
My work, my work — farewell ! 



REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 

O my heart, my heart is sick awishing and awaiting : 
The lad took up his knapsack, he went, he went 
his way ; 
And I looked on for his coming, as a prisoner through 
the grating- 
Looks and longs and longs and wishes for its open- 
ing day. 

On the wild purple mountains, all alone with no 
other, 
The strong terrible mountains, he longed, he longed 
to be : 



REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 



And he stooped to kiss his father, and he stooped to 

kiss his mother, [me. 

And till I said' 4 Adieu, sweet Sir," he quite forgot 

He wrote of their white raiment, the ghostly capes 
that screen them, 
Of the storm winds that beat them, their thunder- 
rents and scars, 
And the paradise of purple, and the golden slopes 
atween them, 
And fields, where grow God's gentian bells, and 
His crocus stars. 

He wrote of frail gauzy clouds, that drop on them like 
fleeces, 
And make green their fir forests, and feed their 
mosses hoar ; 
Or come sailing up the vale's, and get wrecked and 
go to pieces, 
Like sloops against their cruel strength : then he 
wrote no more. 

O the silence that came next, the patience and long 
aching ! 
They never said so much as " He was a dear loved 
son ; " 
Not the father to the mother moaned, that dreary 
stillness breaking : 
" Ah ! wherefore did he leave us so — this, our only 
one ? " 

They sat within, as waiting, until the neighbors 
prayed them, 
At Cromer, by the sea-coast, 'twere peace and 
change to be ; 
And to Cromer, in their patience, or that urgency af- 
f rayed them, 
Or because the tidings tarried, they came, and took 
me. 



REQUTESCAT IN PACE. 33 

lc was three months and over since the dear lad had 

started : [view ; 

On the green downs at Cromer I sat to see the 

On an open space of herbage, where the ling and fern 

had parted, 

Betwixt the tall white lighthouse towers, the old 

and the new, 

Below me lay the wide sea, the scarlet sun was stoop- 
ing, 
And he dyed the wasio water, as with a scarlet 
dye ; 
And lie dyed the lighthouse towers ; every bird with 
white wing swooping 
Took his color§, and the cliffs did, and the yawn- 
ing sky. 

Overgrass came that strange flush, and over ling and 
heather, 
Over flocks of sheep and lambs, and over Cromer 
town ; 
And each filmy cloudlet erossing drifted like a scarlet 
feather 
Torn from the folded wings of clouds, while he set- 
tled down, 

When I looked, T dared not sigh : — In the light of 
God's splendor, 
With His daily blue and gold, who am I? what 
ami? 
But that passion and outpouring seemed an awful 
sign and tender, 
lake the blood of the Redeemer, shown on earth 
and sky. 

O for comfort, O the waste of a long doubt and 
trouble ! 
On that sultry August eve trouble had made me 
meek : 



3 ; REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 



I was tired of my sorrow — so faint, for it was 
double 
111 the weight of its oppression, that I could not 
speak ! 

And a little comfort grew, while the dimmed eyes 

were feeding, 

And the dull ears with murmur of waters satisfied ; 

But a dream came slowly nigh me, all my thoughts 

and faucy leading 

Across the bounds of waking life to the other side. 

And I dreamt that I looked out, to the waste waters 
turning, 
And saw the flakes of scarlet fyom wave to wave 
tossed on ; 
And the scarlet mix with azure, where a heap of gold 
la}' burning 
On the clear remote sea reaches ; for the sun was 
gone. 

Then I thought a far-off shout dropped across the 
still water — 
A question as I took it, for soon an answer came 
From the tall white ruined lighthouse : "If it be the 
old man's daughter 
That we wot of," ran the answer, " what then — 
who's to blame? " 

I looked up at the lighthouse all roofless and storm- 
broken : 
A great white bird sat on it, with neck stretched to 
sea ; 
Unto somewhat which was sailing in a skiff the bird 
had spoken, 
And a trembling seized my spirit, for they talked 
of me. 



REQUIESC'AT IN PACE. 35 

I was the old man's daughter, the bird went on to 

name him ; . [sun ; 

'• lie loved to count the starlings as he sat in the 

Long ago he served with Nelson, and his story did 

not shame him : 

Ay, the old man was a good man — and his work 

was done." 

The skiff was like a crescent, ghost of some moon 
departed, 
Frail, white, she rocked and curtseyed as the red 
wave she crossed, 
And the thing within sat paddling, and the crescent 
dipped and darted, 
Flying on, again was shouting, but the words 
were lost. 

I said, "That thing is hooded; I could hear but 
that floweth 
The great hood below its mouth : " then the bird 
made reply, 
'• If they knew not, more's the pity, for the little 
shrewmouse knoweth, 
And the kite knows, and the eagle, and the glead 
and pye." 

And he stopped to whet his beak on the stones of 
the coping ; 
And when once more the shout came, in querulous 
tones he spake, 
44 What 1 said was 'more's the pity;' if the heart 
be long past hoping, 
Let it say of death, ' I know it,' or doubt on and 
break. 

"Men must die — one dies by day, and near him 
moans his mother, 
They dig his grave, tread it down, and go from it 
'fall loth: 



36 REQUIESCAt IN PACE. 

And one dies about the midnight, and the wind 
moans, and no other, 
And the snow gives him a burial — and God loves 
them both. 

tc The first hath no advantage — it shall not soothe 

his slumber 
That a lock of his brown hair his father aye shall 

keep ; 
For the last, he nothing grudgeth, it shall not his 

quiet cumber, 

That in a golden mesh of ins callow eaglets sleep. 

« 
" Men must die when all is said, e'en the kite and 
glead know it, 
And the lad's father knew it, and the lad, the lad 
too ; 
It was never kept a secret, waters bring it and winds 
blow it, 
And he met it on the mountain — why then make 
ado ? " 

With that he spread his white wings, and swept 
across the water, 
Lit upon the hooded head, and it and all went 
down ; 
And they laughed as they went under, and I woke, 
" the old man's daughter," 
And looked across the slope of grass, and at Cro- 
mer town. 

And I said, "Is that the sky, all gray and silver 

suited ? " 

And I thought, " Is that the sea that lies so white 

and wan? 

I have dreamed as I remember : give me time — I 

was reputed [gone ! " 

Once to have a steady courage — O, I fear 'tis 



XEQUIESCAT IN PACE. 37 

And I said, "Is this my heart? if it be, low 'tis 

beating, [brood ; 

So he lies on the mountain, hard by the eagles' 

I have had a dream this evening, while the white 

and gold were fleeing, 

But I need not, need not tell it — where would be 

the good? 

" Where would be the good to them, his father and 
his mother? 
For the ghost of their dead hope appeareth to 
them still. 
While a lonely watch-fire smoulders, who its dying 
red would smother. 
That sfives what little light there is to a darksome 

hill?" 

I rose up, I made no moan, I did not cry nor falter, 

But slowly in the twilight I came to Cromer town. 

What can wringing of the hands do that which is 

ordained to alter? 

He had climbed, had climbed the mountain, he 

would ne'er come down. 

But, O my first, O my best, I could not choose but 
love thee ! 
O, to be a wild white bird, and seek thy rocky bed ! 
From my breast I'd give the burial, pluck the down 
and spread above thee ; 
I would sit and sing thy requiem on the mountain 
head. 

Fare thee well, my love of loves ! would I had died 

before thee ! [How, 

O, to be at least a cloud, that near thee I might 

Solemnly approach the mountain, weep away my 

being o'er thee, 

And veil thy breast with icicles, and thy brow 

with snow ! 



38 SUPPER AT THE MILL, 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 

Mother. Well, Frances. 

Frances. Well, good mother, how are you? 

M. I'm hearty, lass, but warm ; the weather's 
warm : 
I think 'tis mostly warm on market days. 
I met with George behind the mill : said he, 
" Mother, go in and rest awhile." 

F. Ay, do, 

And sta}' to supper ; put your basket down. 

M. Why, now, it is not heavy? 

F. Willie, man, 

Get up and kiss your Granny. Heavy, no ! 
Some call good churning luck ; but, luck or skill. 
Your butter mostly comes as firm and sweet 
As if 'twas Christmas. So you sold it all? 

M. All but this pat that I put by for George ; 
He always loved my butter. 

F. That he did. 

M. And has your speckled hen brought off her 
brood ? 

F. Not yet ; but that old duck I told you of, 
She hatched eleven out of twelve to-day. 

Child. And, Gramrv, they're so yellow. 

M. Ah, my lad, 

Yellow as gold — yellow as Willie's hair. 

C. They're all mine, Granny — father says they're 
mine. 

M. To think of that ! 

F 1 . Yes, Granny, only think ! 

Why, father means to sell them when they're fat, 
And put the money in the savings bank, 
And all against our Willie goes to school : 
But Willie would not touch them — no, not he; 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 39 

He knows that father would be angry else. 

C. But I want one to play with — 0,1 want 
A little yellow duck to take to bed ! 

M. What ! would you rob the poor old mother, 

then ? 
F. Now, Granny, if you'll hold the babe awhile ; 
'lis time I took up Willie to his crib. 

[Exit Fkances. 

\_Mother sings to the infant.'] 

Playing on the virginals, 

Who but I? Sae glad, sae free, 
Smelling for all cordials, 

The green mint and marjorie ; 
Set among the budding broom, 

Kingcup and daffodilly, 
B3 7 my side I made him room : 

O love my Willie ! 

" Like me, love me, girl o' gowd," 

Sang he to my nimble strain ; 
Sweet his ruddy lips o'erflowed 

Till my heartstrings rang again : 
By the broom, the bonny broom, 

Kingcup and daffodilly, 
In my heart I made him room : 

O love my Willie ! 

"Pipe and play, dear heart," sang he, 

" I must go, yet pipe and play ; 
Soon I'll come and ask of thee 

For an answer yea or nay ;" 
And I waited till the flocks 

Panted in yon waters stilly, 
And the corn stood in the shocks : 

O love my Willie .' 



40 SUPPER AT THE MILL. 

I thought first when thou didst come 

I would wear the ring for thee, 
But the year told out its sum 

Ere again thou sat'st by me ; 
Thou hadst nought to ask that day 

By kingcup and daffodilly ; 
I said neither yea nor nay : 
O love my Willie ! 

Enter George. 
G. Well, mother, 'tis a fortnight now, or more, 
Since I set eyes on you. 

M. Ay, George, my dear, 

I reckon you've been busy : so have we. 
G. And how does father? 

M. He gets through his work, 

But he grows stiff, a little stiff, my dear ; 
He's not so young, you know, by twenty years, 
As I am — not so young by twenty years. 
And I'm past sixty. 

G. Yet he's hale and stout, 

And seems to take a pleasure in his pipe ; 
And seems to take a pleasure in his cows, 
And a pride, too. 

M. And well he may, my dear. 

G. Give me the little one, he tires your arm ; 
He's such a kicking, crowing, wakeful rogue, 
He almost wears our lives out with his noise 
Just at clay-dawning, when we wish to sleep. 
What ! you young villain, would 3-011 clench your fist 
In father's curls ? a dusty father, sure, 
And you're as clean as wax. 

Ay, you may laugh ; 
But if you live a seven years more or so, 
These hands of yours will all be brown and scratched 
With climbing after nest-eggs. The3*'ll go down 
As many rat-holes as are round the mere ; 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 41 



And you'll love mud, all manner of mud and dirt, 
As your father did afore - you, and you'll wade 
After young water-birds ; and } T ou'll get bogged 
Setting of eel-traps, and you'll spoil your clothes, 
And come home torn and dripping : then, you know 
You'll feel the stick — you'll feel the stick, my lad ! 

Enter Frances. 

F. You should not talk so to the blessed babe — 
How can you, George? why, he ma}- be in heaven 
Before the time you tell of. 

M. Look at him : 

So earnest, such an eager pair of eyes I 
He thrives, my dear. 

F. Yes, that he does, thank God ! 
My children are all strong. 

M. 'Tis much to say ; 

Sick children fret their mothers' hearts to shreds, 
And do no credit to their keep nor care. 
Where is your little lass? 

F. Your daughter came 

And begged her of us for a week or so. 

M. Well, well, she might be wiser, that she might, 
For she can sit at ease and pay her way ; 
A sober husband, too — a cheerful man — 
Honest as ever stepped, and fond of her; 
Yet she is never easy, never glad. 
Because she has not children. WeH-a-day ! 
If she could know how hard her mother worked, 
And what ado I had, and what a moil 
With my half-dozen ! Children, ay, forsooth, [come, 
They bring their own love with them when they 
But if they come not there is peace and rest; 
The pretty lambs! and yet she erics for more: 
Why, the world's full of them, and so is heaven — 
They are not rare. 



42 SUPPER AT THE MILL. 

G. No, mother, not at all ; 

But Hannah must not keep our Fanny long — 
She spoils her. 

M. Ah ! folks spoil their children now : 

When I was a young woman 'twas not so ; 
We made our children fear us, made them work, 
Kept them in order. 

G. Were not proud of them — 

Eh, mother? 

M. I set store by mine, 'tis true, 

But then I had good cause. 

G. My lad, d'ye hear? 

Your Granny was not proud, by no means proud ! 
She never spoilt your lather — no, not she, 
Nor ever made him sing at harvest-home, 
Nor at the forge, nor at the baker's shop, 
Nor to the doctor while she la}' abed 
Sick, and he crept upstairs to share her broth, [more, 

31. Well, well, you were my youngest, and, what's 
Your father loved to hear you siug — he did, 
Although, good man, he could not tell one tune 
From the other. 

F. No, he got his voice from you : 
Do use it, George, and send the child to sleep. 

G. What must I sing? 

F. The Ballad of the man 

That is so shy he cannot speak his mind. 

G. Ay, of the purple grapes and crimson leaves ; 
But, mother, put your shawl and bonnet off. 

And, Frances, lass, I brought some cresses in : 
Just wash them, toast the bacon, break some eggs, 
And let us to supper shortly. 

My neighbor White — we met to-day — 
He always had a cheerful way, 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 43 

As if he breathed at ease ; 
My neighbor White lives down the glade, 
And I live higher, in the shade 

Of my old walnut-trees. 

So many lads and lasses small, 

To feed them all, to clothe them all, 

Must surely tax his wit ; 
I see his thatch when I look out, 
His branching roses creep about, 

And vines half smother it. 

There white-haired urchins climb his eaves, 
And little watch-fires heap with leaves, 

And milky filberts hoard; 
And there his oldest (.laughter stands 
With downcast eyes and skilful hands 

Before her ironing-board. 

She comforts all her mother's days, 
And with her sweet obedient ways 

She makes her labor light 
So sweet to hear, so fair to see ! 
O, she is much too good for me, 

That lovely Lettice White ! 
'Tis hard to feel one's self a fool ! 
With that same lass 1 went to school — ■ 

I then was great and wise ; 
She read upon an easier book, 
And I — I never cared to look 

Into her shy blue eyes. 

And now I know they must be there, 
Sweet eyes, behind those lashes fair 

That will not raise their rim : 
If maids be shy, he cures who can; 
But if a man be shy — a man — 

Whv then, the worse for him ! 



44 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 



My mother cries, " For such a lad 
A wife is easy to be had 

And always to be found ; 
A finer scholar scarce can be, 
And for a foot and leg," says she, 

" He beats the country round ! " 

"Mv handsome boy must stoop his head 
To clear her door whom he would wed." 

Weak praise, but fondly sung ! 
" O mother ! scholars sometimes fail — 
And what can foot and leg avail 

To him that wants a tongue ? " 

When by her ironing-board I sit, 
Her little sisters round me flit, 

And bring me forth their store ; 
Dark cluster grapes of dusty-blue, 
And small sweet apples, bright of hue 

And crimson to the core. 

But she abideth silent, fair ; 
All shaded by her flaxen hair 

The blushes come and go ; 
I look, and I no more can speak 
Than the red sun that on her cheek 

Smiles as he lieth low. 

Sometimes the roses by the latch, 

Or scarlet vine-leaves from her thatch, 

Come sailing down like birds ; 
When from their drifts her board I clear,. 
She thanks me, but I scarce can hear 

The shyly uttered words. 

Oft have I wooed sweet Lettice White 
By daylight and by candlelight 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 



45 



When we two were apart. 
Some better day come on apace, 
And let me tell her face to face, 

" Maiden, thou hast my heart." 

How gently rock you poplars high 
Against the reach of primrose sky 

With heaven's pale candles stored ! 
She sees them all, sweet Lettice White; 
I'll ev'n go sit again to-night 

Beside her ironing-board ! 

Why, you young rascal ! who would tlnnk it, now? 
No sooner do I stop than you look up. 
What would you have your poor old father do? 
'Twas a brave song, long-winded, and not loud. 

M. He heard the bacon, sputter on the fork, 
And heard his mother's step across the floor. 
Where did you get that song? — 'tis new to me. 

G. I bought it of a pedler. 

M. Did you so ? 

Well, you were always for the love-songs, George. 

F. My dear, jusl lay his head upon your arm., 
And if you'll pace and sing two minutes more 
lie needs must sleep — his eyes are full of sleep. 

G. Do you sing, mother. 

F. Ay. good mother, do; 
'Tis long since we have heard you 

M. Like enough ; 

I'm an old woman, and the girls and lads 
1 used to sing to sleep e'eitop me now. 
What should I sing for? 

G. Why, to pleasure us. 
Sing in the chimney corner, where you sit, 
And I'll pace gently with the little one. 



46 SUPPER AT THE MILL. 

[Mother sings.'] 

When sparrows build, and the leaves break forth, 

My old sorrow wakes and cries, 
Fur I know there is dawn in the far, far north, 

And a scarlet sun doth rise ; 
Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads, 

And the icy founts run free, 
And the bergs begin to bow their heads, 

And plunge, and sail in the sea. 

O my lost love, and my own, own love, 

And my love that loved me so ! 
Is there never a chink in the world above 

Where they listen for w r ords from below? 
Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore, 

I remember all that I said, 
And now thou wilt hear me no more — no more 

Till the sea gives up her dead. 

Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail 

To the ice-fields and the snow ; 
Thou wert sad, for thy love did naught avail, 

And the end I could not know ; 
How could I tell I should love thee to-day, 

Whom that day I held not dear? 
How could I know I should love thee away 

When I did not love thee anear? 

W r e shall walk no more through the sodden plain 

With the faded bents o'erspread, 
We shall stand no more by the seething main 

While the dark wrack drives o'erhead ; 
W r e shall part no more in the w r ind and the rain, 

Where thy last farewell was said : 
But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again 

When the sea gives up her dead. 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 47 

F. Asleep at last, and time he was, indeed. 
Turn back the cradle-quilt, and lay him in ; 
And, mother, will you [dense to draw your chair? — 
The supper's ready. 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

While ripening corn grew thick and deep 
And here and there men stood to reap, 
One morn I put my heart to sleep. 

And to the lanes I took my way. 
The goldfinch on a thistle-head 
Stood scattering seedlets while she fed ; 
The wrens their pretty gossip spread, 

Or joined a random roundelay. 

On hanging cobwebs shone the dew, 
And thick the wayside clovers grew ; 
The feeding bee had much to do, 

So fast did honey-drops exude : 
She sucked and murmured and was gone, 
And lit on other blooms anon, 
The while I learned a lesson on 

The source and sense of quietude. 

For sheep-bells chiming from a wold, 
Or bleat of lamb within its fold, 
Or cooing of love-legends old 

To dove-wives make not quiet less ; 
Ecstatic chirp of winged thing, 
Or bubbling of the water-spring, 
Are sounds that more than silence bring, 

Itself and its delightsomeness. 

While thus 1 went to gladness fain, 
I had but walked a mile or twain 
Before my heart woke up again, 



48 SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

As dreaming she had slept too late ; 
The morning freshness that she viewed 
With her own meanings she endued, 
And touched with her solicitude 

The natures she did meditate. 

" If quiet is, for it I wait \ 
To it, ah ! let me wed 1113* fate, 
And, like a sad wife, supplicate 

My roving lord no more to flee ; 
If leisure is — but, ah ! 'tis not — 
J Tis long past praying for, God wot 
The fashion of it men forgot, 

About the age of chivalry. 

tc Sweet is the leisure of the bird ; 
She craves no time for work deferred ; 
Her wings are not to aching stirred 

Providing for her helpless ones. 
Fair is the leisure of the wheat ; 
All night the damps about it fleet ; 
All day it basketh in the heat, 

And grows, and whispers orisons. 
' ' Grand is the leisure of the earth ; 
She gives her happy myriads birth, 
And after harvest fears not dearth, 

But goes to sleep in snow-wreaths dim. 
Dread is the leisure up above 
The while He sits whose name is Love, 
And waits, as Noah did, for the dove, 

To wit if she would fly to him. 
"He waits for us, while, houseless things, 
We beat about with bruised wings 
On the dark floods and water-springs, 

The ruined world, the desolate sea ; 
With open windows from the prime 
All night, all day, He waits sublime, 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 



49 



Until the fulness of the time 
Decreed from His eternity. 

44 Where is our leisure? — Give us rest. 

Where is the quiet we possessed? 

We must have had it once — were blest 

With peace whose phantoms yet entice. 
Sorely the mother of mankind 
Longed for the garden left behind ; 
For we still prove some yearnings blind 

Inherited from Paradise." 

44 Hold, heart ! " I cried ; 4t for trouble sleeps ; 
I hear no sound of aught that weep? ; 
I will not lo«>k Into thy deeps — 

I am afraid, I am afraid ! " 
44 Afraid ! " she saith ; l4 and yet 'tis true 
That what man dreads he still should view — 
Should do the thing he fears to do, 

And storm the ghosts in ambusciide." 

44 What good? " T sigh. 44 Was reason meant 
To straighten branches that are bent, 
Or soothe an ancient discontent, 

The instinct of a race dethroned? 
Ah ! doubly should that instinct go, 
Must the four rivers cease to flow, 
Nor yield those rumors sweet and low 

Wherewith man's life is undertoned." 

44 Yet had I but the past," she cries, 
44 And it was lost, I would arise 
And comfort me some other wise. 

But more than loss about me clings : 
I am but restless with my race ; 
The whispers from a heavenly place, 
Once dropped among us, seem to chase 

Rest with their prophet-visitings. 



5 o SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

" The race is like a child, as yet 
Too young for all things to be set 
Plainly before him with no let 

Or hindrance meet for his degree ; 
But ne'ertheless by much too old 
Not to percieve that men withhold 
More of the story than is told, 

And so infer a mystery. 

" If the Celestials daily fly 
With messages on missions high, 
And float, our masts and turrets nigh, 

Conversing on Heaven's great intents ; 
t^hat wonder hints of coming things, 
Whereto man's hope and yearning clings, 
Should drop like feathers from their wings 

And give us vague presentiments? 

" And as the waxing moon can take 

The tidal waters in her wake 

And lead them round and round to break 

Obedient to her drawings dim ; 
So may the movements of his mind, 
The first Great Father of mankind, 
Affect with answering movements blind, 

And draw the sonls that breathe by Him. 
" We had a message long ago 
That like a river peace should flow, 
And Eden bloom again below. 

We heard, and we began to wait ; 
Full soon that message men forgot ; 
Yet waiting is their destined lot, 
And waiting for they know not what 

They strive with yearnings passionnte. 

" Regret and faith alike enchain ; 
There was a loss, there comes a gain ; 
We stand at fault betwixt the twain, 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 51 



A n< I that is veiled for which we punt. 
Our lives are short, our ten times seven; 
AVe think the councils held in heaven 
Sit long, ere vet that blissfnl leaven 

Work peace amongst the militant. 
14 Then we blame God that Sin should he 
Adam began it. at the tree, 
* The woman whom Thou gavest me;' 

And we adopt bis dark device. 

Long Thou tarriest ! come and reign, 
And bring forgiveness in Thy train, 
And give QS in our hands again 

The apples of Thy Paradise." 
" Far- >eing heart ! it* that be all, 
The happy thing-- that did n< t fall," 

1 sighed, " from every coppice call 

They never from that garden went. 
Behold their joy. bo comfort thee, 
Behold the blossom and the bee, 
For they are y< t as good and free 

A.s when poor Eve was innocent. 
" But reason chus : ' It" we sank low, 
If the lost garden we for< 
Each in his day, nor ever know 

But in our poet souls its face; 
Yet we may rise until we reach 
A height untold of in its speech, 

A lesson that it could not teach 

Learn in this darker dwelling place.* 
" And reason on : k We take the spoil ; 
Loss made us poets, and the soil 
Taught us great patience in our toil, 

And life is kin to God through death. 
Christ were not One with us hut so, 
And if I Him *< g° « 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

Dearer the heavenly mansions grow, 
His home, to man that wandereth.' 

" Content thee so, and ease thy smart." 
With that she slept again, my heart, 
And I admired and took my part 

With crowds of happy things the while : 
With open velvet butterilies 
That swung and spread their peacock eyes, 
As if they cared no more to rise 

From off their beds of camomile. 

The blackcaps in an orchard met, 
Praising the berries while they ate : 
The finch that flew her beak to whet 

Before she joined them on the tree ; 
The water mouse among the reeds — 
His bright eyes glancing black as beads, 
So happy with a bunch of seeds — 

I felt their gladness heartily. 

But I came on, I smelt the ha}', 
And up the hills I took my way, 
And down them still made holiday, 

And walked, and wearied not a whit ; 
But ever with the lane I went 
Until it dropped with steep descent, 
Cut deep into the rock, a tent 

Of maple branches roofing it. 

Adown the rock small runlets wept, 
And reckless ivies leaned and crept, 
And little spots of sunshine slept 

On its brown steeps and made them fair; 
And broader beams athwart it shot, 
Where martins cheeped in many a knot, 
For they hud ta'en a sandy plot 

And scooped another Petra there. 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 



53 



And deeper down, hemmed in and hid 
From upper light and life amid 
The swallows gossiping, I thrid 

Its mazes, till thg dipping land 
Sank to the level of my lane : 
That was the last hill of the chain, 
And fair below I saw the plain 

That seemed cold cheer to reprimand. 

Half-drowned in sleepy peace it lay, 
As satiate with the boundless play 
Of sunshine on its green array. 

And clear-cut hills of gloomy blue 
To keep it safe rose up behind, 
As with a charmed ring to bind 
The grassy sea, where clouds might find 

A place to bring their shadows to. 

I said, and blest that pastoral grace, 

14 How sweet thou art, thou sunny place ! 

Thy God approves thy smiling face : " 

But straight my heart put in her word ,* 
She said, " Albeit thy face I bless, 
There have been times, sweet wilderness, 
When I have wished to love thee less, 

Such pangs thy smile administered." 

But, lo ! I reached a field of wheat, 
And by its gate full clear and sweet 
A workman sang, while at his feet 

Played a young child, all life and stir— 
A three years' child, with rosy lip, 
Who in the song had partnership, 
Made happy with each falling chip 

Dropped by the busy carpenter. 
This, reared a new gate for the old, 
And loud the tuneful measure rolled, 
But stopped as I came up to hold 



54 SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

Some kindly talk of passing things. 
Brave were his eyes, and frank his mien ; 
Of all men's faces, calm or keen, 
A better I have never seen 

In all my lonely wanderings. 

And how it was I scarce can tell, 
We seemed to please each other well ; 
I lingered till a noonday bell 

Had sounded, and his task was done. 
An oak had screeued us from the heat ; 
And 'neath it in the standing wheat, 
A cradle and a fair retreat, 

Full sweetly slept the little one. 

The workman rested from his stroke, 
And manly were the words he spoke, 
Until the smiling babe awoke 

And prayed to him for milk and food. 
Then to a runlet forth he went, 
And brought a wallet from the bent, 
And bade me to the meal, intent 

I should not quit his neighborhood. 

" For here," said he, ct are bread and beer, 
And meat enough to make good cheer : 
Sir, eat with me, and have no fear, 

For none upon my work depend, 
Saving this child ; and I may say 
That I am rich, for every day 
I put by somewhat ; therefore stay, 

And to such eating condescend. " 

We ate. The child — child fair to see — 
Began to cling about his knee, 
And he down loaning fatherly 

Received .some softly-prattled prayer; 
He smiled as if to list were balm, 
And with his labor-hardened palm 



SCHOLAR AND CARPEN1ER. 55 



Tushed from the baby-forehead calm 

Those shining locks that clustered there. 

The rosy mouth made fresh essay — 

w '() would lie sing or would he play?" 

I looked, my thought would make its way — 

kk Fair is your child of face and limb. 
The round blue eyes full sweetly shine." 
IIi> answered me with glance benign — 
WL Ay, Sir; but he is none of mine, 

Although 1 set great store by him." 

With that, as if his heart was fain 
To open — nathless not complain — 
He let my quiet questions gain 

His Btory : *' Not of kin to me," 
Repeating; "but asleep, awake, 
For worse, for better, him I take, 
To cherish for my dead wife's sake, 

And count him as her legacy. 

tk I married with the sweetest lass 
That ever stepped on meadow grass; 
That ever at her looking-glass 

Some pleasure took, Bome natural care; 
That ever swept a cottage floor 
And worked all day, nor e'er gave o'er 
Till eve, then watched beside the door 

Till her good man should meet her there. 

k ' But I lost all in its fresh prime; 
My wife fell ill before her time — 
Just as the hells began to chime 

One Sunday morn. By next day's light 
Her little babe was born and dead. 
And she, unconscious what she said, 
Willi feeble hands about her spread, 

Sought it with yearnings infinite. 



56 SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

44 With mother-longing still beguiled, 
And lost in fever-fancies wild, 
She piteonsly bemoaned her child 

That we had stolen, she said, away. 
And ten sad days she sighed to me, 
4 I cannot rest until I see 
My pretty one ! I think that he 

Smiled in my face but yesterday.' 
44 Then she would change, and faintly try 
To sing some tender lullaby ; 
And ' Ah ! ' would moan, ' if I should die, 

Who, sweetest babe, would cherish thee?' 
Then weep, ' My pretty boy is grown ; 
With tender feet on the cold stone 
He stands, for he can stand alone, 

And no one leads him motherly. ' 
44 Then she with dying movements slow 
Would seem to knit, or seem to sew : 
4 His feet are bare, he must not go 

Unshod : ' and as her death drew on, 
4 O little baby,' she would sigh : 
4 My little child, I cannot die 
Till I have you to slumber nigh, 

You, you to set mine eyes upon.' 
44 When she spake thus, and moaning lay, 
They said, ' She cannot pass away, 
So sore she longs : ' and as the day 

Broke on the hills, I left her side. 
Mourning along this lane I went : 
Some travelling folk had pitched their tent 
Up yonder : there a woman, bent 

With age, sat meanly canopied. 
" A twelvemonths' child was at her side : 
4 Whose infant may that be? ' I cried. 
4 His that will own him,' she replied ; 

4 His mother's dead, no worse could be.' 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 57 

4 Since you can give — or else I erred — 
See, you are taken at your word,' 
Quoth I ; ' That child is mine ; I heard, 

And own him ! Rise, and give him me. 1 
<; She arose amazed, but cursed me too ; 
She could not hold such luck for true, 
But gave him soon with small ado. 

I laid him by my Lucy's side : 
Close to her face that baby crept, 
And stroked it, and the sweet soul wept ; 
Then, while upon her arm he slept, 

She passed, for she was satisfied. 
" I loved her well, I wept her sore, 
And when her funeral left my door 
I thought that J should never more 

Feel any pleasure near me glow ; 
But I have learned though this I laid, 
'Tis sometimes natural to be glad, 
And no man can be always sad 

Unless he wills to have it so. 
" Oh, I had heavy nights at first, 
And daily wakening was the worst: 
For then my grief arose, and burst 

Like something fresh upon my head : 
Yet when less keen it seemed to grow, 
I was not pleased — I wished to go 
Mourning adown this vale of woe, 

For all my life uncomforted. 
" I grudged myself the lightsome air, 
That makes man cheerful unaware ; 
When comfort came, I did not care 

To take it in, to feel it stir ; 
vVnd yet God took with me II is plan, 
And now for my appointed span 
I think 1 j) m a happier man 

For having wed and wept for her. 



58 THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

" Because no natural tie remains, 

On this small thing I spend my gains ; 

God makes me love him for my pains, 

And binds me so to wholesome care : 
I would not lose from my past life 
That happy year, that happy wife ! 
Yet now I wage no useless strife 

With feelings blithe and debonair. 

" I have the courage to be gay, 
Although she lieth lapped away 
Under the daisies, for I say, 

' Thou wouldst be glad if thou couldst see : 8 
My constant thought makes manifest 
I have not what I love the best, 
But I must thank God for the rest 

While I hold heaven a verity." 

He rose ; upon his shoulder set 

The child, and while with vague regret 

We parted, pleased that we had met, 

My heart did with herself confer ; 
With wholesome shame she did repent 
Her reasonings idly eloquent, 
And said, " I might be more content: 

But God go with the carpenter." 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

IX THE CONCLUDING PART OF A DISCOURSE ON FAMS 

{lie thinks.] 
If there be memory in the world to come, 

If thought recur to some things silenced here, 
Then shall the deep heart be no longer dumb, 

But find expression in that happier sphere ; 



THE STARS MONUMENT. 59 

It shall not be denied their utmost sum 

Of love, to speak without or fault or fear, 
But utter to the harp with changes sweet 
Words that, forbidden still, then heaven were incom- 
plete. 

\He speaks."] 

Now let us talk about the ancient days, 

And things which happened long before our birth: 

It is a pity to lament that praise 

Should be no shadow in the train of worth. 

What is it, Madam, that your heart dismays? 
Why murmur at the course of this vast earth? 

Think rather of the work than of the praise ; 

Come, we will talk about the ancient days. 

There was a Poet, Madam, once (said he) : 

I will relate his story to you now, 
While through the branches of this apple-tree 

Some spots of sunshine flicker on your brow, 
While every flower hath on its breast a bee, 

And every bird in stirring doth endow 
The grass with falling blooms that smoothly glide 
As ships drop down a river with the tide. 

For telling of his tale no fitter place 

Than this old orchard, sloping to the west ; 

Through its pink dome of blossom I can trace 
Some overlying azure ; for the rest, 

These flowery branches round us interlace ; 
The ground is hollowed like a mossy nest : 

Who talks of fame while the religious spring 

Offers the incense of her blossoming? 

There was a Poet, Madam, once (said he), 
Who, while he walked at sundown in a lane, 

Took to his heart the hope that destiny 
Had singled him this guerdon to obtain, 



6o THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



That by the power of his sweet minstrelsy 

Some hearts for truth and goodness he should gam 
And charm some grovellers to uplift their eyes 
And suddenly wax conscious of the skies. 
" Master, good e'en to ye ! " a woodman said, 

Who the low hedge was trimming with his shears. 
" This hour is fine " — the Poet bowed his head. 

"More fine," he thought, "O friend! to me 
appears 
The sunset than to you ; finer the spread 

Of orange lustre through these azure spheres, 
Where little clouds lie still, like flocks of sheep, 
Or vessels sailing in God's other deep. 

" O finer far ! What work so high as mine, 
Interpreter betwixt the world and man, 

Nature's ungathered pearls to set and shrine, 
The mystery she wraps her in to scan ; 

Her unsyllabic voices to combine, 

And serve her with such love as poets can ; 

With mortal words, her chant of praise to bind, 

Then die, and leave the poem to mankind? 

" O fair, O fine, O lot to be desired ! 

Early and late my heart appeals to me, 
And says, ' O work, O will — Thou man, be fired 

To earn this lot,' — she says, ' I would not be 
A worker for mine own bread, or one hired 

For mine own profit. O, I would be free 
To work for others ; love so earned of them 
Should be m}- wages and my diadem. 

" ' Then when I died I should not fall,' says she, 
' Like drooping flowers that no man noticeth, 

But like a great branch of some stately tree 
Rent in a tempest, and flung down to death, 

Thick with green leafage — so that piteously 
Each passer by that ruin shuddereth. 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 61 

And saith, The gap this braoeh hath left is wide *, 
The loss thereof can never be supplied.' " 

But, Madam, while the Poet pondered so, 
Toward the leafy hedge he turned his eye, 

And saw two slender branches that did grow, 
And from it rising spring and flourish high ; 

Their tops were twined together fast, and, lo, 
Their shadow crossed the path as he went by — 

The shadow of a wild rose and a briar, 

And it was shaped in semblance like a lyre. 

In sooth, a lyre ! and as the soft air played, 
Those branches stirred, but did not disunite. 

41 emblem meet for me ! " the Poet said ; 
14 Ay, I accept and own thee for my right ; 

The shadowy lyre across my feet is laid, 

Distinct though frail, and clear with crimson light: 

Fast is it twined to bear the windy strain, 

And, supple, it will bend and rise again. 

44 This lyre is cast across the dusty way, 

The common path that common men pursue; 

I crave like blessing for my shadowy lay, 
Life's trodden paths with beauty to renew, 

And cheer the eve of many a toil-stained day. 
Light it, old sun, wet it, thou common dew, 

That 'neath men's feet its image still may be 

While yet it waves about them, living lyre, like thee ! " 

"But even as the Poet spoke, behold 
He lifted up his face toward the sky ; 

The ruddy sun dipt under the gray wold, 

His shadowy lyre was gone ; and, passing by 

The woodman lifting up his shears, was bold 
Their temper on those branches twain to try. 

And all their loveliness and leafage sweet 

Fell in the pathway, at the Poet's feet. 



62 THE STARS MONUMENT. 

k - Ah ! my fair emblem that I chose," quoth he, 
" That for myself I coveted but now, 

Too soon, methinks, thou hast been false to me ; 
The lyre from pathway fades, the light from brow.'* 

Then straightway turned he from it hastily, 
As dream that waking sense will disallow ; 

And while the highway heavenward paled apace, 

He went on westward to his dwelling-place. 

He went on steadily, while far and fast 

The summer darkness dropped upon the world, 

A gentle air among the cloudlets passed 

And fanned away their crimson ; then it curled 

The yellow poppies in the field, and cast 
A dimness on the grasses, for it iurled 

Their daisies, and swept out the purple stain 

That eve had left upon the pastoral plain. 

He reached his city. Lo ! the darkened street 
Where he abode wns full of gazing crowds ; 

He heard the muffled tread of man} 7 feet ; 
A multitude stood gazing at the clouds. 

tk What mark ye there," said he, "and wherefore 
meet? 
Only a passing mist the heaven o'ershrouds ; 

It breaks, it parts, it drifts like scattered spars — 

What lies behind it but the nightly stars ? " 

Then did the gazing crowd to him aver 

They sought a lamp in heaven whose light was hid ; 

For that in sooth an old Astronomer 

Down from his roof had rushed into their mid, 

Frighted, and fain with others to confer, 

That he had cried, " O sirs ! " — and upward bid 

Them gaze — u O sirs, a light is quenched afar; 

Look up, my masters, we have lost a star ! " 

The people pointed, and the Poet's eyes 
Flew upward, where a gleaming sisterhood 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT, 63 

Swam in tfie dewy heaven. The very skies 
Were mutable ; for all-amazed he stood 

To see that truly not in any wise 

He could behold them as of old, nor could 

His eyes receive the whole whereof he wot, 

But when lie told them over, one was not. 

While yet he gazed and pondered reverently, 

The fickle folk began to move away. 
4 ^ It is but one star less for us to see : 



And what does one star signify?" quoth they ; 
•* The heavens are full of them." " But ah ! " said he, 

" That star was bright while yet she lasted." 
"Ay!" 
They answered : " praise her. Poet, an' ye will : 
Some are now shining that are brighter still." 

" Poor star ! to be disparaged so soon 

On her withdrawal," thus the Poet sighed ; 

" That men should miss and straight deny her noon 
Its brightness ! " But the people in their pride 

Said, u How are we beholden? 'twas no boon 
She gave. Her nature 'twas to shine so wide 

She could not choose but shine, nor could we know 

Such star had ever dwelt in heaven but so." 

The Poet answered sadly, " That is true ! " 
And then he thought upon unthankfuluess ; 

While some went homeward ; and the residue, 
Reflecting that the stars are numberless, 

Mourned that man's daylight hours should be so few. 
So short the shining that his path may bless : 

To nearer themes then tuned their willing lips, 

And thought no more upon the star's eclipse. 

But he, the Poet, could not rest content 
Till he had found that old Astronomer ; 

Therefore at midnight to his house he went 
And prayed him be his tale's interpreter. 



04 THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

And yet upon the heaven his eyes lie bent, 

Hearing the marvel ; yet he sought for her 
That was awanting, in the hope her face 
Once more might fill its reft abiding-place. 

Then yaid the old Astronomer : " ]\ly son, 

I sat upon iny roof to-night ; 
I saw the stars come forth, and scarcely shun 

To fringe the edges of the western light ; 
I marked those ancient clusters one by one, 

The same that blessed our old forefather's sight \ 
For God alone is older — none but He 
Can charge the stars with mutability : 

" The elders of the night, the steadfast stars, 
The old, old stars which God has let us see, 

That they might be our soul's auxiliars, 

And help us to the truth how young we be — ■ 

God's youngest, latest born, as if, some spars 
And a little clay being over of them — He 

Had made our world and us thereof, yet given, 

To humble us, the sight of His great heaven. 

" But ah ! my son, to-night mine eyes have seen 
The death of light, the end of old renown ; 

A shrinking back of glory that had been, 
A dread eclipse before the Eternal's frown. 

How soon a little grass will grow between 
These eyes and those appointed to look down 

Upon a world that was not made on high 

Till the last scenes of their long empiry ! 

kw To-night that shining cluster now despoiled 
Lay in day's wake a perfect sisterhood ; 

Sweet was its light to me that long had toiled, 
It gleamed and trembled o'er the distant wood ; 

Blown in a pile the clouds from it recoiled, 
Cool twilight up the sky her way made good ; 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT 65 

I saw, but not believed — it was so strange — 
That one of those same stars had suffered ehange. 

'• The darkness gathered, and uiethought she spread, 
Wrapped in a reddish haze that waxed and waned ; 

But notwithstanding to myself I said — 

1 The stars are changeless ; sure some mote hath 
stained 

Mine eyes, and her fair glory minished.' 
Of age and failing vision I complained, 

And thought l some vapor in the heavens doth swim, 

That makes her look so large and yet so dim.' 

'•But I gazed round, and all her lustrous peers 
In her red presence showed but wan and white ; 

For like a living coal beheld through tears 

She glowed and quivered with a gloomy light; 

Methought she trembled, as all sick through fears, 
Helpless, appalled, appealing to the night; 

Like one who throws his arms up to the sky 

And bows down suffering, hopeless of reply. 

" At length, as if an everlasting Hand 
Had taken hold upon her in her place, 

And swiftly, like a golden grain of sand, 
Through all the deep infinitudes of space 

Was drawing her — God's truth as here I stand — 
Backward and inward to itself ; her face 

Fast lessened, lessened, till it looked no more 

Than smallest atom on a boundless shore. 

" And she that was so fair. I saw her lie, 

The smallest thing in God's great firmament, 

Till night was at the darkest, and on high 

Her sisters glittered, though her light was spent; 

I strained to follow her, each aching eye, 
So swiftly at her Maker's will she went; 



66 THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



I looked again — I looked — the star was gone, 
And nothing marked in heaven where she had shone.' 3 

4k Gone ! " said the Poet, l ' and about to be 

Forgotten : 0, how sad a fate is hers ! " 
" How is it sad, my son?" all reverently 

The old man answered ; " though she"ministers 
No longer with her lamp to me and thee, 

She has fulfilled her mission. God transfers 
Or dims her ray ; yet was she blest as bright, 
For all her life was spent in giving light." 
" Her mission she fulfilled assuredly,'* 

The poet cried : " but, O unhappy star! 
None praise and few will bear in memory 

The name she went by. O, from far, from far 
Comes down, methinks, her mournful voice to me, 

Full of regrets that men so thankless are." 
So said, he told that old Astronomer 
All that the gazing crowd had said of her. 
And he went on to speak in bitter wise, 

As one who seems to tell another's fate, 
But feels that nearer meaning underlies, 

And poiuts its sadness to his own estate : 
" If such be the reward," he said with sighs, 

" Envy to earn for love, for goodness hate — 
If such be thy reward, hard case is thine ! 
It had been better for thee not to shine. 
fci If to reflect a light that is divine 

Makes that which doth reflect it better seen, 
And if to see is to contemn the shrine, 

'Twere surely better it had never been : 
It had been better for her not to shine, 

And for me not to sing. Better, I ween, 
For us to yield no more that radiance blight, 
For them, to lack the light than scorn the light.* - 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 67 

Strange words were those from Poet lips (said he) ; 

And then he paused, and sighed, and turned to 
look 
Upon the lady's downcast eyes, and see 

How fast the honey bees in settling shook 
Those apple blossoms on her from the tree ; 

He watched her busy fingers as they took 
And slipped the knotted thread, and thought how 

much 
He would have given that band to hold — to touch. 
At length, as suddenly become aware 

Of this long pause, she lifted up her face, 
And he withdrew his eyes — she looked so fair 

And cold, he thought, in her unconscious grace. 
44 Ah ! little dreams she of the restless care," 

He thought, 4; that makes my heart to throb apace. 
Though we this morning part, the knowledge sends 
No thrill to her calm pulse — we are but friends." 
Ah ! turret clock (he thought), I would thy hand 

Were hid behind yon towering maple-trees ! 
Ah ! tell-tale shadow, but one moment stand — 

Dark shadow — fast advancing to my knees; 
Ah ! foolish heart (he thought), that vainly planned 

By feigning gladness to arrive at ease ; 
Ah ! painful hour, yet pain to think it ends ; 
I must remember that we are but friends. 
And while the knotted thread moved to and fro, 

In sweet regretful tones that lady said : 
44 It seemeth that the fame you would forego 

The Voct whom you tell of coveted ; 
But I would fain, methinks, his story know. 

And was he loved?" said she, " or was he wed? 
And had he friends?" "One friend, perhaps/* said 

he ; 
44 But for the rest, I pray you let it be." 



68 THE STAR'S MONUMENT 

Ah ! little bird (he thought), most patient bird, 
Breasting thy speckled eggs the long day through, 

By so much as iny reason is preferred 

Above thine instinet, I my work would do 

Better than thou dost thine. Thou hast not stirred 
This hour thy wing. Ah ! russet bird, I sue 

For a like patience to wear through these hours — 

Bird on thy nest among the apple-flowers. 

I will not speak — I will not speak to thee, 
My star ! and soon to be my lost, lost star. 

The sweetest, first, that ever shone on me, 
So high above me and beyond so far ; 

I can forego thee, but not bear to see 

My love, like rising mist, thy lustre mar: 

That were a base return for thy sweet light. 

Shine, though I never more shall see that thou art 
bright. 

Never ! 'Tis certain that no hope is — none? 

No hope for me, and yet for thee no fear. 
The hardest part of my hard task is done ; 

Thy calm assures me that I am not dear ; 
Though far and fast the rapid moments run, 

Thy bosom heaveth not, thine eyes are clear ; 
Silent, perhaps a little sad at heart 
She is. I am her friend, and I depart. 

Silent she had been, but she raised her face ; 

"And will you end," said she, "this half-told 
tale?" 
" Yes, it were best," he answered her. " The place 

Where I left off was where he felt to fail 
His courage, Madam, through the fancy base 

That they who love, endure, or work, may rail 
And cease — if all their love, the works they wrought, 
And their endurance, men have set at naught." 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT, 69 

-' It had been better for me not to sing," 
My Poet said, " and for her not to shine ;" 

But him the old man answered, sorrowing, 
" My son, did God who made her, the Divine 

Lighter of suns, when clown to yon bright ring 
He cast her like some gleaming almandine, 

And set her in her place, begirt with rays, 

Say unto her ' Give light, 1 or Bay k Earn praise ": " 

The Poet said, "He made her to give light." 

iL Myson," the old man answered, iw blest are such, 
A blessed lot is theirs; but if each night 

Mankind had praised her radiance inasmuch 

As praise had never made it wax more bright, 

And cannot now rekindle with its touch 
Her lost effulgence, it is naught. I wot 
That praise was not her blessing nor her lot." 
"Ay," said the Poet, w% I my words abjure, 

And I repent me that I uttered them ; 
Bui by her light and by its forfeiture 

She shall not pass without her requiem. 
Though my name perish, yet shall hers endure ; 

Though I should be forgotten, she, lost gem, 
shall be remembered ; though she sought not fame, 
It shall be busy with her beauteous name. 

ki For I will raise in her bright memory. 

Lost now on earth, a lasting monument, 
And graven on it shall recorded be 

That all her rays to light mankind were spent, 
And I will sing albeit none beedeth me, 

On her exemplar being still intent: 
While in men's Bight shall .stand the record thus — 
4 So long as she did last she lighted us.' '" 

So said, he raised, according t<> his vow. 

On the gre< 1 where ofl his townsfolks met, 



70 THE STAR'S MONUMENT 



Under the shadow of a leafy bough 
That leaned toward a singing rivulet, 

One pure white stone, whereon, like crown on brow, 
The image of the vanished star was set ; 

And this was graven on the pure white stone 

In golden letters — " While she lived she shone." 

Madam, I cannot give this story well — 
My heart is beating to another chime ; 

My voice must needs a different cadence swell ; 
It is yon singing bird, which all the time 

Wooeth his nested mate, that doth dispel 

My thoughts. What, deem you, could a lover's 
rhyme 

The sweetness of that passionate lay excel? 

soft, O low her voice — " I cannot tell." 

[He thinks.] 

The old man — ay, he spoke, he was not hard ; 

" She was his joy," he said, kt his comforter, 
But he would trust me. I was not debarred 

Whate'er my heart approved to say to her." 
Approved ! O torn and tempted and ill-starred 

And breaking heart, approve not nor demur ; 
It is the serpent that beguileth thee 
With " God doth know " beneath this apple-tree. 

Yea, God doth know, and only God doth know* 
Have pity, God, my spirit groans to Thee ! 

1 bear Thy curse primeval, and I go ; 

But heavier than on Adam falls on me 
My tillage of the wilderness ; for, lo ! 

I leave behind the woman, and I see 
As 'twere the gates of Eden closing o'er 
To hide her from my sight for evermore. 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 71 

\_IIe speaks.'] 

I am a fool, with sudden start he cried, 
To let the song-bird work me such unrest ; 

If I break off again, I pray you chide, 
For morning fleeteth, with my tale at best 

Half told. That white stone, Madam, gleamed beside 
The little rivulet, and all men pressed 

To read the lost one's story traced thereon, 

The golden legend — " While she lived she shone." 

And, Madam, when the Poet heard them read, 
And children spell the letters softly through, 

It may be that he felt at heart some need, 
Some craving to be thus remembered too : 

It may be that he wondered if indeed 

He must die wholly when he passed from view; 

It may be, wished, when death his eyes made dim, 

That some kind hand would raise such stone for him. 

But shortly, as there comes to most of us. 

There came to him the need to quit his home : 

To tell you why were simply hazardous. 

What said I, Madam? — men were made to roam 

My meaning is. Jt hath been always thus : 
They are athirst for mountains and sea foam ; 

Heirs of this world, what wonder if perchauce 

They long to see their grand inheritance? 

He left his city, and went forth to teach 
Mankind, his peers, the hidden harmony 

That underlies God's discords, and to reach 
And touch the master-string that like a sigh 

Thrills in their souls, as if it would beseech 
Some hand to sound it, and to satisfy 

Its yearning for expression : but no word 

Till poet touch it hath to make its music heard. 



7 2 THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



\_He thinks. ] 
I know that God is good, though evil dwells 

Among us, and doth all things holiest share ; 
That there is joy in heaven, while yet our knell. 

Sound for the souls which He has summoned the 
That painful love unsatisfied hath spells 

Earned by its smart to soothe its fellow's care ; 
But yet this atom cannot in the whole 
Forget itself — it aches a separate soul. 

\_He speaks. ,] 

But, Madam, to my Poet I return. 

With his sweet cadences of woven words 
He made their rude untutored hearts to burn 

And melt like gold refined. No brooding birds 
Sing better of the love that doth sojourn 

Hid in the nest of home, which softly girds 
The beating heart of life ; and, strait though it be, 
Is straitness better than wide liberty. 
He taught them, and they learned, but not the less 

Remained unconscious whence that lore they drew, 
But dreamed that of their native nobleness 

Some lofty thoughts, that he had planted, grew ; 
His glorious maxims in a lowly dress, 

Like seed sown broadcast, sprung in all men's view, 
The sower, passing onward, was not known, 
And all men reaped the harvest as their own. 
It may be, Madam, that those ballads sweet, 

Whose rhythmic measures yesterday we sung, 
Which time and changes make not obsolete, 

But (as a river bears down blossoms flung 
Upon its breast) take with them while they fleet — » 

It may be from his lyre that first they sprung : 
But who can tell, since work surviveth fame? — 
The rhyme is left, but lost the Poet's name. 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 73 

He worked, and bravely he fulfilled his trust — 
So long he wandered sowing worthy seed, 

Watering of wayside buds that were adust, 
And touching for the common ear his reed — 

So long to wear away the cankering rust 

That dulls the gold of life — so long to plead 

With sweetest music for all souls oppressed, 

That he was old ere he had thought of rest. 

Old and gray-headed, leaning on a staff, 
To that great city of his birth he came, 

And at its gates he paused with wondering laugh 
To think how changed were all his thoughts of 
fame 

Since first he carved the golden epitaph 
To keep in memory a worthy name, 

And thought forgetfulness had been its doom 

But for a few bright letters on a tomb. 

The old Astronomer had long since died ; 

The friends of youth were gone and far dispersed ; 
Strange were the domrs that rose on every side ; 

Strange fountains on his wondering vision burst; 
The men of yesterday their business plied ; 

No face was left that he had known at first j 
And in the city gardens, lo ! he sees 
The saplings that he set are stately trees. 

Upon the grass beneath their welcome shade, 
Behold ! lie marks the fair white monument, 

And on its face the golden words displayed, 
For sixty years their lustre have not spent ; 

He sitteth by it and is not afraid, 

But in its shadow he is well content ; 

And envies not, though bright their gleamings are 

The golden letters of the vanished star. 



74 THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



He gazeth up ; exceeding bright appears 

That golden legend to his aged eyes, 
For they are dazzled till they fill with tears, 

And his lost Youth doth like a vision rise ; 
She saith to him, lt In all these toilsome years, 

What hast thou won by work or enterprise? 
What hast thou won to make amends to thee, 
As thou didst swear to do, for loss of me ? 

" O man ! O white-haired man ! " the vision said, 
" Since we two sat beside this monument 

Life's clearest hues are all evanished, 

The golden wealth thou hadst of me is spent ; 

The wind hath swept thy flowers, their leaves are 
shed ; 
The music is played out that with thee went." 

" Peace, peace!" he cried; 4t 1 lost thee, but, in 
truth, 

There are worse losses than the loss of youth." 

He said not what those losses were — but I — 
But I must leave them, for the time draws near. 

Some lose not only joy, but memory 

Of how it felt : not love that was so dear 

Lose only, but the steadfast certainty 

That once they had it ; doubt comes on, then fear, 

And after that despondency. I wis 

The Poet must have meant such loss as this. 

But while he sat and pondered on his youth, 
He said, li It did one deed that doth remain, 

For it preserved the memory and the truth 
Of her that now doth neither set nor wane, 

But shine in all men's thoughts ; nor sink forsooth, 
And be forgotten like the summer rain. 

O, it is good that man should not forget 

Or benefits foregone or brightness set ! " 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 75 

He spoke and said, " My lot contenteth me : 
I am right glad for this her worthy fame ; 

That which was good and great I fain would see 
Drawn with a halo round what rests — its name." 

This while the Poet said, behold, there came 
A workman with his tools anear the tree, 

And when he read the words he paused awhile 

And pondered on them with a wondering smile. 

And then he said, " I pray you, Sir, what mean 
The golden letters of this monument?" 

In wonder quoth the Poet, " Hast thou been 
A dweller near at hand, and their intent 

Hast neither heard by voice of fame, nor seen 
The marble earlier?" " Ay," said he, and leant 

Upon his spade to hear the tale, then sigh., 

And say it was a marvel, and pass by. 

Then said the Poet, lt This is strange to me." 
But as he mused, with trouble in his mind, 

A band of maids approached him leisurely, 
Like vessels sailing with a favoring wind ; 

And of their rosy lips requested he, 

As one that for a doubt would solving find, 

The tale, if tale there were, of that white stone, 

And those fair letters — "While she lived she shone." 

Then like a fleet that floats becalmed they stay. 

" O, Sir," saith one, " this monument is old ; 
But we have heard our virtuous mothers say 

That by their mothers thus the tale was told : 
A Poet made it ; journeying then away, 

He left Us ; and though some the meaning hold 
For other than the ancient one, yet we 
Receive this legend for a certainty : — 

" There was a lily once, most purely white, 
Beneath the shadow of these boughs it grew ; 



7 6 THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

Its starry blossom it unclosed by night, 
And a young Poet loved its shape and hue. 

He watched it nightly, 'twas so fair a sight 
Until a stormy wind arose and blew, 

And when he came once more his flower to greet 

Its fallen petals drifted to his feet. 

" And for his beautiful white lily's sake, 

That she might be remembered where her scent 

Had been right sweet, he said that he would make 
In her dear memory a monument : 

For she was purer than a driven flake 

Of snow, and in her grace most excellent ; 

The loveliest life that death did ever mar, 

As beautiful to gaze on as a star." 

" I thank you, maid," the Poet answered her, 
" And I am glad that I have heard your tale." 

With that they passed ; and as an inlander, 
Having heard breakers raging in a gale 

And falling down in thunder, will aver 
That still, when far away in grassy vale, 

He seems to hear those seething waters bound, 

So in his ears the maiden's voice did sound. 

He leaned his face upon his hand, and thought 
And thought, until a youth came by that way ; 

And once again of him the Poet sought 
The story of the star. But, well-a-day ! 

He said, "The meaning with much doubt is fraught, 
The sense thereof can no man surely say ; 

For still tradition sways the common ear, 

That of a truth a star did disappear. 

" But they who look beneath the outer shell 
That wraps the * kernel of the people's lore,' 

Hold that for superstition ; and they tell 
That seven lovely sisters dwelt of vore 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



77 



In this old city, where it so befell 

That one a Poet loved ; that, furthermore, 
As stars above us she was pure and good, 
And fairest of that beauteous sisterhood. 

l - So beautiful they were, those virgins seven^ 
That all men called them clustered stars in song, 

Forgetful that the stars abide in heaven : 
But woman bideth not beneath it long ; 

For O, alas ! alas ! one fated even, 

When stars their azure deeps began to throng, 

That virgin's e} T es of Poet loved waxed dim, 

And all their lustrous shining waned to him. 

" In summer dusk she drooped her head and sighed 
. Until what time the evening star went down, 
And all the other stars did shining bide 

Clear in the lustre of their old renown, 
And then — the virgin laid her down and died : 

Forgot her youth, forgot her beauty's crown, 
Forgot the sisters whom she loved before, 
And broke her Poet's heart for evermore." 

-' A mournful tale, in sooth," the lady saith: 
fc ' But did he truly grieve for evermore?" 

" It ma}* be you forget," he answereth, 
'• That this is but a fable at the core 

O' the other fable." " Though it be but breath," 
She asketh, t; was it true?" Then he, " This lore. 

Since it is fable, either way may go ; 

Then, if it please you, think it might be so." 

" Nay, but," she saith, " If I had told your tale, 
The virgin should have lived his home to bless, 

Or, must she die, I would have made to fail 
His useless love." '- 1 tell you not the less," 

He sighs, " because it was cf no avail : 
His heart the Poet would not dispossess 



78 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



Thereof. But let us leave the fable now, 
My Poet heard it with an aehing brow." 

And he made answer thus : ik I thank thee, youth; 

Strange is thy story to these aged ears, 
But I bethink me thou hast told a truth 

I'lider the guise of fable. If my tears, 
Thou lost beloved star, lost now, forsooth, 

Indeed could bring thee back among thy peers, 
So new thou shouldst be deemed as newly seeu, 
Tor men forget that thou hast ever been. 

kt There was a morning when I longed for fame> 
There was a noontide when I passed it by, 

There is an evening when I think not shame 
Its substance and its being to deny ; 

For if men bear in mind great deeds, the name 
Of him that wrought them shall they leave to die , 

Or if his name they shall have deathless writ, 

They change the deeds that first ennobled it. 

" golden letters of this monument ! 

O words to celebrate a loved renown 
Lost now or wrested, and to fancies lent, 

Or on a fabled forehead set for crown ! 
For my departed star, I am content, 

Though legends dim and years her memory drown ; 
For what were fame to her, compared and set 
By this great truth which ye make lustrous yet?" 

" Adieu ! " the Poet said, " my vanished star, 
Thy duty and thy happiness were one. 

Work is heaven's best; its fame is sublunar: 

The fame thou dost not need — the work is done. 

For thee I am content that these things are ; 
More than content were I, my race being run, 

Might it be true of me, though none thereon 

Should muse regretful— ' While he lived he shone,"' 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



79 



So said, the Poet rose and went his way, 

And that same lot he proved whereof he spake. 

Madam, my story is told out ; the day 

Draws out her shadows, time doth overtake 

The morning. That which endeth call a lay, 
Sung after pause — a motto in the break 

Between two chapters of a tale not new, 

Nor joyful — but a common tale. Adieu ! 

And that same God who made your face so fair, 
And gave your woman's heart its tenderness, 

So shield the blessing He implanted there, 
That it may never turn to your distress, 

And never cost you trouble or despair, 

Nor, granted, leave the granter comfortless; 

But like a river, blest where'er it flows, 

Be still receiving while it still bestows. 

Adieu, he said, and paused, while she sat mute 
In the soft shadow of the apple-tree ; 

The skylark's song rang like a joyous flute, 
The brook went prattling past her restlessly : 

She let their tongues be her tongue's substitute : 
It was the wind that sighed, it was not she : 

And what the lark, the brook, the wind, had said. 

We cannot tell, for none interpreted. 

Their counsels might be hard to reconcile, 
The}' might not suit the moment or the spot. 

She rose, and laid her work aside the while 
Down in the sunshine of that grassy plot ; 

She looked upon him with an almost smile, 
And held to him a hand that faltered not. 

One moment — bird "and brook went warbling on, 

And the wind sighed again 

So quietly, as if she heard no more 
Or skylark in the azure overhead, 



So THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

Or water slipping past the cressy shore, 

Or wind that rose in sighs, and sighing fled — 

So quietly, until the alders hoar 

Took him beneath them ; till the downward spread 

Of planes engulfed him in their leafy seas 

She stood beneath her rose-flushed apple-trees. 

And then she stooped toward the mossy grass, 
And gathered up her work and went her way ; 

Straight to that ancient turret she did pass, 

And startle back some fawns that were at play. 

She did not sigh, she never said ct Alas ! " 

Although he was her friend ; but still that day, 

Where elm and hornbeam spread a towering dome 

She crossed the dells to her ancestral home. 

And did she love him? — what if she did not? 

Then home was still the home of happiest years ; 
Nor thought was exiled to partake his lot, 

Nor heart lost courage through foreboding feurs ; 
Nor echo did against her secret plot, 

Nor music her betray to painful tears ; 
Nor life become a dream, and sunshine dim, 
And riches poverty, because of him. 

But did she love him? — what and if she did? 

Love cannot cool the burning Austral sand, 
Nor show the secret waters that lie hid 

In arid valleys of that desert land. 
Love has no spells can scorching winds forbid, 

Or bring the help which tarries near to hand, 
Or spread a cloud for curtaining faded eyes 
That gaze up dying into alien skies. 



A DEAD YEAR. 81 

A DEAD YEAR. 

I took a year out of my life and story — 
A dead year, and said, " I will hew thee a tomb! 

' All the kings of the nations lie in glory ; ' 
Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom ; 
Swathed in linen, and precious unguents old ; 
Painted with cinnabar, and rich with gold. 

" Silent they rest, in solemn salvatory, 
Sealed from the moth and the owl and the flitter- 
mouse — 
Each with his name on his brow. 
' All the kings of the nations lie in glory, 
Every one in his own house : ' 
Then why not thou ? 

" Year," I said, " thou shalt not lack 
Bribes to bar thy coming back ; 
Doth old Egypt wear her best 
In the chambers of her rest? 
Doth she take to her last bed 
Beaten gold, and glorious red? 
Envy not ! for thou wilt wear 
In the dark a shroud as fair ; 
Golden with the sunny ray 
Thou withdrawest from my day ; 
Wrought upon with colors fine 
Stolen from this life of mine : 
Like the dusty Libyan kings, 
Lie with two wide-open wings 
On thy breast, as if to say, 
On these wings hope flew away ; 
And so housed, and thus adorned, 
Not forgotten, but not scorned, 
Let the dark for evermore 
Close thee when I close the door ; 



82 A DEAD YEAR. 

And the dust for ages fall 
In the creases of thy pall ; 
And no voice nor visit rude 
Break thy sealed solitude." 

I took the year out of my life and stoiy, 
The dead year, and said, "I have hewed thee a 
tomb ! 
' All the kings of the nations lie in glory, 
Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom ; 
But for the sword, and the sceptre, and diadem, 

Sure thou didst reign like them." 
So I laid her with those tyrants old and hoary, 

According to my vow ; 
For I said, " The kings of the nations lie in glory, 
And so shalt thou ! " 

" Rock," I said, " thy ribs are strong, 

That I bring thee guard it long ; 

Hide the light from buried eyes — 

Hide it, lest the dead arise." 

Cw Year," I said, and turned away, 

"lam free of thee this day ; 

All that we two only know, 

I forgive and I forego, 

So thy face no mort I meet 

In the field or in the street.' ' 

Thus we parted, she and I ; 
Life hid death, and put it by ; 
Life hid death, and said, " Be free! • 
I have no more need of thee." 
No more need ! O mad mistake, 
With repentance in its wake ! 
Ignorant, and rash, and blind, 
Life had left the grave behind; 
But had locked within its hold, 
With the spices and the gold, 



A DEAD YEAR. 83 



All slio had to keep her warm 
In the raging of the storni. 

Scarce the sunset bloom was gone, 
And the little stars outshone, 
Ere the dead year, stiff and stark, 
Drew me to her in the dark ; 
Death drew life to come to her, 
Beating at her sepulchre, 
Crying out, ' ; How can I part 
With the best share of my heart? 
Lo, it lies upon the bier, 
Captive, with the buried year. 

my heart ! " And I fell prone, 
Weeping at the sealed stone ; 

" Year among the shades," I said, 
" Since I live, and thou art dead, 
Let my captive heart be free 
Like a bird to fly to me." 
And I stayed some voice to win, 
But none answered from within ; 
And I kissed the door — and night 
Deepened till the stars waxed bright 
And I saw them set and wane, 
And the world turned green again. 

" So, - ' I whispered, " open door, 

1 must tread this palace floor ■ — 
Sealed palace, rich and dim. 
Let a narrow sunbeam swim 
After me, and on me spread 
While I look upon my dead ; 
Let a little warmth be free 

To come after ; let me see 
Through the doorway, when I sit 
Looking out, the swallows flit, 
Settling not till daylight goes ; 
Let me smell the wild white rose, 



g 4 A DEAD YEAR. 



Smell the woodbine and the may ; 
Mark, upon a sunny day, 
Sated from their blossoms rise 
Honey-bees and butterflies. 
Let me hear, ! let me hear, 
Sitting by my buried year, 
Finches chirping to their young, 
And the little noises flung 
Out of clefts where rabbits play, 
Or from railing water-spray ; 

And the gracious echoes woke 
By man's work : the woodman's stroke, 
Shout of shepherd, whistling blithe^ 
And the whetting of the scythe ; 
Let this be, lest shut and furled 
From the well-beloved world, 
I forget her yearnings old, 
And her troubles manifold, 
Strivings sore, submissions meet, 
And my pulse no longer beat, 
Keeping time and bearing part 
With the pulse of her great heart. 

" So ! swing open, door, and shade 
Take me : I am not afraid, 
For the time will not be long ; 
Soon I shall have waxen strong — 
Strong enough my own to win 
From the grave it lies within." 

And I entered. On her bier 
Quiet lay the buried year ; 
1 sat down where I could see 
Life without and sunshine free, 



Death within. And I between 
Waited my own heart to wean 



REFLECTIONS. 85 



From the shroud that shaded her 
In the rock-hewn sepulchre — 
Waited till the dead should say, 
*-' Heart, be free of me this day." 
Waited with a patient will — 

AND I WAIT BETWEEN THEM STILL. 

I take the year back to my life and story, 
The dead 3-ear and say, u I will share in thy tomb. 

4 All the kings of the nations lie in glory ; ' 
Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom ! 
They reigned in their lifetime with sceptre and 
diadem. 

But thou excellest them ; 
For life doth make thy grave her oratory. 

And the crown is still on thy brow ; 
4 All the kings of the nations lie in glory,' 

And so dost thou." 



REFLECTIONS. 

Written for the Portfolio Society, July, 18G2. 

LOOKING OVER A GATE AT A TOOL IX A FIELD. 

What change has made the pastures sweet 
And reached the daisies at my feet, 

And cloud that wears a golden hem? 
This lovely world, the hills, the sward — 
They all look fresh, as if our Lord 

But yesterday had finished them. 

And here's the field with light aglow ; 
How fresh its boundary lime-trees show, 

And how its wet leaves trembling shine ! 
Between their trunks come through to me 
The morning sparkles of the sea 

Below the level browsing line. 



86 REFLECTIONS. 



I see the pool more clear 03- half 
Than pools where other waters laugh 

Up at the breasts of coot and rail. 
There, as she passed it on her way, 
I saw reflected yesterday 

A maiden with a milking-pail. 

There, neither slowly nor in haste, 
One hand upon her slender waist, 

The other lifted to her pail, 
She, rosy in the morning light, 
Among the water-daisies white, 

Like some fair sloop appeared to sail. 

Against her ankles as she trod 
The lucky buttercups did nod. 

I leaned upon the gate to see : 
The sweet thing looked, but did not speak; 
A dimple came in either cheek, 

And all my heart was gone from me. 

Then, as I lingered on the gate, 
And she came up like coming fate, 

I saw my picture in her eyes — 
Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes, 
Cheeks like the mountain pink, that grows 

Among white-headed majesties. 

I said, " A tale was made of old 
That I would fain to thee unfold ; 

Ah ! let me — let me tell the tale." 
But high she held her comely head ; 
" I cannot heed it now," she said, 

" For carrying of the milking-pail." 

She laughed. What good to make ado? 
I held the gate, and she came through, 
And took her homeward path anon. 
From the clear pool her face had fled ; 



REFLECTIONS. 87 



It rested on my heart instead, 

Reflected when the rnaid was gone. 

With happy youth, and work content, 
So sweet and stately on she went, 

Right careless of the untold tale. 
Each step she took I loved her more, 
And followed to her dairy door 

The maiden with the milking-pail. 



For hearts where wakened love doth lurk, 
How fine, how blest a thing is work ! 

For work does good when reasons fail — 
Good ; yet the axe at every stroke 
The echo of a name awoke — 

Her name is Mary Martindale. 

I'm glad that echo was not heard 
Aright by other men : a bird 

Knows doubtless what his own notes tell 
And I know not ; but I can say 
I felt as shame-faced all that day 

As if folks heard her name right well. 

And when the west began to glow 
I went — I could not choose but go — 

To that same dairy on the hill ; 
And while sweet Mary moved about 
Within, I came to her without, 

And leaned upon the window-sill. 

The garden border where I stood 

Was sweet with pinks and southern-wood. 

I spoke — her answer seemed to fail ; 
I smelt the pinks — I could not see ; 
The dusk came down and sheltered me, 

And in the dusk she heard my tale. 



SS THE LETTER L. 

And what is left that I should tell ? 
I begged a kiss, I pleaded well : 

The rosebud lips clicl long decline ; 
But yet I think, I think 'tis true, 
That leaned at last into the dew, 

One little instant they were mine. 

O life ! how dear thou hast become : 
She laughed at dawn, and I was dumb, 

But evening counsels best prevail. 
Fair shine the blue that o'er her spreads, 
Green be the pastures where she treads, 

The maiden with the milking-pail ! 



THE LETTER L. 

ABSENT. 

We sat on grassy slopes that meet 
With sudden dip the level strand; 

The trees hung overhead — our feet 
Were on the sand. 

Two silent girls, a thoughtful man, 
We sunned ourselves in open light, 

And felt such April airs as fan 
The Isle of Wight ; 

And smelt the wall-flower in the crag 
Whereon that dainty waft had fed, 

Which made the bell-hung cowslip wag 
Her delicate head ; 

And let alighting jackdaws fleet 
Adown it open-winged, and pass 

Till they could touch with outstretched feet 
The warmed grass. 



THE LETTER L. 89 

The happy wave ran up and rang 

Like service bells a long way off, 
And down a little freshet sprang 

From mossy trough, 

And splashed into a rain of spray, 
And fretted on with daylight's loss, 

Because so many blue-bells lay 
Leaning across. 

Blue martins gossiped in the sun, 

And pairs of chattering daws new by, 

And sailing brigs rocked softly on 
In company. 

Wild cherry bough* above us spread 

The whitest shade was ever seen, 
And flicker, flicker, came and fled 

Sun-spots between. 

Bees murmured in the milk-white bloom 
As babes will sigh for deep content 

When their sweet hearts for peace make room, 
As given, not lent. 

And we saw on : we said no word, 
And one was lost in musings rare, 

One buoyant as the waft that stirred 
Her shining hair. 

His eyes were bent upon the sand, 
Unfathomed deeps within them lay ; 

A slender rod was in his hand — 
A hazel spray. 

Her eyes were resting on his face, 
As shyly glad by stealth to glean 

Impressions of his manly grace 
And guarded mien ; 



9° 



THE LETTER L. 



The mouth with steady sweetness set, 

And eyes conveying unaware 
The distant hint of some regret 

That harbored there. 

She gazed, and in the tender flush 
That made her face like roses blown, 

And in the radiance and the hush, 
Her thought was shown. 

It was a happy thing to sit 

So near, nor mar his reverie ; 
She looked noc for a part in it, 

So meek was she. 

But it was solace for her eyes, 

And for her heart, that yearned to him, 
To watch apart in loving wise 

Those musings dim. 

Lost — lost, and gone ! The Pelham woods 
Were full of doves that cooed at ease ; 

The orchis filled her purple hoods 
For dainty bees. 

He heard not ; all the delicate air 
Was fresh with falling water-spray ; 

It mattered not — he was not there, 
But far away. 

Till with the hazel in his hand, 

Still drowned in thought, it thus befell ? 
He drew a letter on the sand — 

The letter L. 

And looking on it, straight there wrought 

A ruddy flush about his brow ; 
His letter woke him : absent thought 

Rushed homeward now. 



THE LETTER L. 



91 



And, half-abashed, his hasty touch 
Effaced it with a tell-tale care, 

As if his action had been much, 
And not his air. 

And she ? she watched his open palm 
Smooth out the letter from the sand, 

And rose, with aspect almost calm, 
A t nd filled her hand 

"With cherry bloom : and moved away 
To gather wild forget-me-not, 

And let her errant footsteps stray 
To one sweet'spot, 

As if she coveted the fair 

White lining of the silver weed 

And cuckoo-pint that shaded there 
Empurpled seed. 

She had not feared, as I divine, 

Because she had not hoped. Alas ! 

The sorrow of it ! for that sign 
Came but to pass ; 

And yet it robbed her of the right 
To give, who looked not to receive, 

And made her blush in love's despite 
That she should grieve. 

A shape in white, she turned to gaze ; 

Her eyes were shaded with her hand. 
And half-way up the winding ways 

We saw her stand. 

Green hollows of the fringed cliff, 
Red rocks that under waters show, 

Blue reaches, and a sailing skiff, 
Were spread below. 



9 2 



THE LETTER L. 



She stood to gaze, perhaps to sigh, 
Perhaps to think ; but who can tell 

How heavy on her heart must lie 
The letter L ! 



She came anon with quiet grace ; 

And " What," she murmured, "silent, yet!' 5 
He answered, "'Tis a haunted place, 

And spell- beset. 

" O speak to us, and break the spell ! " 
"The spell is broken," she replied. 

" I crossed the running brook, it fell, 
It could not bide. 

-" And I have brought a budding world 
Of orchis spires and daisies rank, 

And ferny plumes but half uncurled, 
From yonder bank ; 

" And I shall weave of them a crown, 
And at the well-head launch it free, 

That so the brook may float it down, 
And out to sea. 

" There may it to some English hands 
From fairy meadow seem to come ; 

The f airyest of fairy lands — 
The land of home." 

" Weave on," he said, and as she wove 
We told how currents in the deep, 

With branches from a lemon grove, 
Blue bergs will sweep. 

And messages from shipwrecked folk 
Will navigate the moon-led main, 

And painted boards of splintered oak 
Their port regain. 



THE LETTER L. 



93 



Then floated out by vagrant thought, 

My soul beheld on torrid sand 
The wasteful water set at naught 

Man's skilful hand, 

And suck out gold-dust from the box, 
And wash it down in weedy whirls, 

And split the wine-keg on the rocks, 
And lose the pearls. 

" Ah ! why to that which needs it not," 

Methought, ki should costly things be given? 

How much is wasted, wrecked, forgot, 
On this side heaven ! 

So musing, did mine ears awake 
To maiden tones of sweet reserve, 

And manly speech that seemed to make 
The steady curve 

Of lips that uttered it defer 

Their guard, and soften for the thought: 
She listened, and his talk with her 

Was fancy fraught. 

" There is not much in liberty" — 

With doubtful pauses he began ; 
And said to her and said to me, 

1 ' There was a man — 

<k There was a man who dreamed one night 
That his dead father came to him, 

And said, when fire was low, and light 
Was burning dim — 

" ' Why vagrant thus, my sometime pride, 
Unloved, unloving, wilt thou roam? 

Sure home is best ! ' The son replied, 
1 1 have no home.' 



94 



THE LETTER L. 



" i Shall not I speak? ' his father said, 
1 Who early chose a youthful wife, 

And worked for her, and with her led 
My happy life. 

" ' Ay, I will speak, for I was young 
As thou art now, when I did hold 

The prattling sweetness of thy tongue 
Dearer than gold ; 

" ' And rosy from thy noonday sleep 
Would bear thee to admiring kin, 

And all thy pretty looks would keep 
My heart within. 

" l Then after, 'mid thy young allies — 
For thee ambition flushed my brow — 

I coveted the schoolboy prize 
Far more than thou. 

" 4 1 thought for thee, I thought for all 
My gamesome imps that round me grew ; 

The dews of blessing heaviest fall 
Where care falls too. 

" ' And I that sent my boys away, 

In youthful strength to earn their bread, 

And died before the hair was gray 
Upon my head — 

" ' I say to thee, though free from care, 

A lonely lot, an aimless life, 
The crowning comfort is not there — 

Son, take a wife.' 

" ' Father beloved,' the son replied, 
And failed to gather to his breast, 

With arms in darkness searching wide, 
The formless guest. 



THE LETTER L. 95 



"'I Jim but free, as sorrow is, 

To dry her tears, to laugh, to talk ; 

Aud free, as sick men are, I wis, 
To rise and walk. 

" ' And free, as poor men are, to buy 
If they have naught wherewith to pay ; 

Nor hope the debt, before they die, 
To wipe away. 

" i What 'vails it there are wives to win, 
And faithful hearts for those to yearn, 

Who find not aught thereto akin 
To make return? 

4t 4 Shall he take much who little gives 

And dwells in spirit far away, 
When she that in his presence lives, 

Doth never stray, 

" ' But, waking, guideth as beseems 

The happy house in order trim, 
And tends her babes ; and, sleeping, dreams 

Of the in and him? 

" 4 base, O cold,' " — while thus he spake 
The dream broke off, the vision fled ; 

He carried on his speech awake, 
And sighing, said — 

''<• « 1 had — ah, happy man ! — I had 

A precious jewel in my breast, 
And while I kept it I was glad 

At work, at rest ! 

" ' Call it a heart, and call it strong 
As upward stroke of eagle's wing ; 

Then call it weak, you shall not wrong 
The beating thing. 



9 6 THE LETTER E 



"• ' In tangles of the jungle reed, 
Whose heats are lit with tiger eyes, 

In shipwreck drifting with the weed 
'Neath rainy skies, 

u * Still youthful manhood, fresh and keen, 
At danger gazed with awed delight, 

As if sea would not drown, I ween, 
Nor serpent bite. 

" ' I had — ah, happy ! but 'tis gone, 
The priceless jewel ; one came by, 

And saw and stood awhile to con 
With curious eye, 

" ' And wished for it, and faintly smiled 
From under lashes black as doom, 

With subtle sweetness, tender, mild, 
That did illume 

" ' The perfect face, and shed on it 
A charm, half feeling, half surprise, 

And brim with dreams the exquisite 
Brown blessed eyes. 

" ' Was it for this, no more but this, 

I took and laid it in her hand, 
By dimples ruled, to hint submiss, 

By frown unmanned? 

" ' It was for this — and O farewell 
The fearless foot, the present mind 5 

And steady will to breast the swell 
And face the wind ! 

" ' I gave the jewel from my breast, 
She played with it a little while 

As I sailed down into the west, 
Fed by her smile ; 



THE LETTER L. 97 



-♦Then weary of it — far from land, 

With sighs as deep- as destiny, 
She let it drop from her fair hand 

Into the sea. 

" ' And watched it sink ; and I — and I, — 
What shall I do, for all is vain? 

No wave will bring, no gold will buy, 
No toil attain ; 

" ' Nor any diver reach to raise 
My jewel from the blue abyss ; 

Or could they, still I should but praise 
Their work amiss. 

" ' Thrown, thrown away ! But I love yet 
The fair, fair hand which did the deed : 

That wayward sweetness to forget 
Were bitter meed. 

" ' No, let it lie, and let the wave 

Roll over it for evermore ; 
Whelmed where the sailor hath his grave — 

The sea her store. 

" ' My heart, my sometime happy heart! 

And O for ouce let me complain, 
I must forego life's better part — 

Man's dearer gain. 

" ■ I worked afar that I might rear 
A peaceful home on English soil; 

I labored for the gold and gear — 
I loved my toil. 

" ' Forever in my spirit spake 

The natural whisper, " Well 'twill be 

When loving wife and children break 
Their bread with thee ! " 



9 3 THE LETTER L. 

kt ' The gathered gold is turned to dross, 

The wife hath faded into air, 
My heart is thrown away, my loss 

I cannot spare. 

" ' Not spare unsated thought her food — 
No, not one rustle of the fold, 

Nor scent of eastern sandalwood, 
Nor gleam of gold ; 

" ' Nor quaint devices of the shawl, 
Far less the drooping lashes meek : 

The gracious figure, lithe and tall, 
The dimpled cheek ; 

" ' And all the wonders of her e} T es, 
And sweet caprices of her air, 

Albeit, indignant reason cries, 
Fool ! have a care. 

" ' Fool \ join not madness to mistake ; 

Thou knowest she loved thee not a whit ; 
Only that she thy heart might break - - 

She wanted it, 

" ' Only the conquered thing to chain 
So fast that none might set it free, 

Nor other woman there might reign 
And comfort thee. 

" ' Robbed, robbed of life's illusions sweet: 
Love dead outside her closed door, 

And passion fainting at her feet 
To wake no more ; 

" 'What canst thou give that unknown bride 
Whom thou didst work for in the waste, 

Ere fated love was born , and cried — 
Was dead, uugraced? 



\ 



THE LETTER L. 99 



" 4 No more but this, the partial care, 
The natural kindness for its own, 

The trust that waxeth unaware, 
As worth is known : 

" ' Observance, and complacent thought 

Indulgent, and the honor due 
That many another man has brought 

Who brought love too. 

" i Nay, then, forbid it, Heaven ! ' he said, 
' The saintly vision fades from me ; 

O bands and chains ! I cannot wed — 
I am not free.' " 

With that he raised his face to view ; 

" What think you," asking, tk of my tale? 
And was he right to let the dew 

Of morn exhale, 

"And burdened in the noontide sun, 

The grateful shade of home forego — 
Could he be right — I ask as one 

Who fain would know?" 

He spoke to her and spoke to me ; 

The rebel rose-hue dyed her cheeJK ; 
The woven crown lay on her knee ; 

She would not speak. 

And I with doubtful pause — averse 

To let occasion drift away — 
I answered — ' w if his case were worse 

Than word can say, 

tk Time is a healer of sick hearts. 

And women have been known to choose, 

With purpose to allay their smarts, 
And tend their bruise, 



THE LETTER L. 



" These for themselves. Content to give 
In their own lavish love complete, 

Taking for sole prerogative 
Their tendance sweet. 

"Such meeting in their diadem 
Of crowning love's ethereal fire, 

Himself he robs who robbeth them 
Of their desire. 

" Therefore the man who, dreaming, cried 
Against his lot that evensong, 

I judge him honest, and decide 
That he was wrong." 



? • 



" When I am judged, ah, may my fate 
He whispered, u iii thy code be read! 

Be thou both judge and advocate." 
Then turned, he said — 

" Fair weaver ! " touching, while he spoke 
The woven crown, the weaving hand, 

" And do you this decree revoke, 
Or may it stand ? 

" This friend, you ever think her right — 
She is not wrong, then ? " Soft and low 

The little trembling word took flight : 
She answered, u No." 



PRESENT. 



A meadow, where the grass was deep, 
Rich, square, and golden to the view, 

A belt of elms, with level sweep 
About it grew. 



THE LETTER L. 



The sun beat down on it, the line 

Of shade was clear. beneath the trees ; 

There, by a clustering eglantine. 
We sat at ease. 

And O the buttercups ! that field 

O' the cloth of gold, where pennons swam 
Where France set up his lilied shield, 

His oriflannnc. 

And Henry's lion-standard rolled : 
What was it to their matchless sheen, 

Their million million drops of gold 
Among the green ! 

We sat at ease in peaceful trust, 
For he had written, " Let us meet ; 

My wife grew tired of smoke and dust, 
Aud London heat, 

44 And I have found a quiet grange, 
Set back in meadows sloping west, 

And there our little ones can range 
And she can rest. 

" Come down, that we may show the view, 
And she may hear your voice again, 

And talk her woman's talk with you 
Along the lane." 

Since he had drawn with listless hand 
The letter, six long }-ears had fled, 

And winds had blown about the sand, 
And they were wed. 

Two rosy urchins near him played, 

Or watched, entranced, the shapely ships 

That with his knife for them he made 
Of elder slips. 



[0 2 THE LETTER L. 

And where the flowers were thickest shed, 
Each blossom like a burnished gem, 

A creeping baby reared its head, 
And coced at them. 

And calm was on the father's face, 
And love was in the mother's eves ; 

She looked and listened from her place, 
In tender wise. 

She did not need to raise her voice 

That they might hear, she sat so nigh ; 

Yet we could speak when 'twas our choice, 
And soft reply. 

Holding our quiet talk apart 

Of household things ; till, all unsealed, 
The guarded outworks of the heart 

Began to yield ; 

And much that prudence will not dip 
The pen to fix and send away, 

Passed safely over from the lip 
That summer day. 

" 1 should be happy," with a look 
Towards her husband where he lay, 

Lost in the pages of his book, 
Soft did she say ; 

" I am, and yet no lot below 
For one whole clay eludeth care ; 

To marriage all the stories flow, 
And finish there : 

" As if with marriage came the end, 
The entrance into settled rest, 

The calm to which love's tossings tend, 
The quiet breast. 



THE LETTER L. 



103 



"For me love played the low preludes, 
Yet life began but with the ring, 

Such infinite solicitudes 
Around it cling. 

" I did not for my heart divine 
Her destiny so meek to grow ; 

The higher nature matched with mine 
Will have it so. 

" Still I consider it, and still 

Acknowledge it my master made, 

Above me by the steadier will 
Of naught afraid. 

"Above me by the candid speech ; 

The temperate judgment of its own ; 
The keener thoughts that grasp and reach 

At things unknown. 

" But I look up and he looks down, 
And thus our married eyes can meet ; 

Unclouded his, and clear of frown, 
And gravely sweet. 

" And yet, O good, O wise and true ! 

I would for all m}' fealty, 
That I could be as much to you 

As you to me ; 

" And knew the deep secure content 
Of wives who have been hardly won 

And, long petitioned, gave assent, 
Jealous of none. 

" But proudly sure in all the earth 
No other in that homage shares. 

Nor other woman's face or worth 
Is prized as theirs." 



104 



THE LETTER L. 



I said : ' ' And yet no lot below 
For one whole clay elucleth care. 

Your thought." She answered, " Even so, 
I would beware 

" Regretful questionings ; be sure 

That very seldom do they rise, 
Nor for myself do I endure — 

I sympathize. 

44 For once " — she turned away her head, 
Across the grass she swept her hand — 

44 There was a letter once," she said, 
" Upon the sand." 

44 There was, in truth, a letter writ 

On sand," I said, 4fc and swept from view, 

But that same hand which fashioned it 
Is given to you. 

44 Efface the letter ; wherefore keep 
An image which the sands forego ! " 

44 Albeit that fear had seemed to sleep," 
She answered low, 

44 1 could not choose but wake it now ; 

For do but turn aside your face, 
A house on yonder hilly brow 

Your eyes may trace. 

44 The chestnut shelters it ; ah me, 
That I should have so faint a heart ! 

But y ester eve, as by the sea 
I sat apart, 

*' I heard a name, I saw a hand 

Of passing stranger point that way — 

And will lie meet her on the strand, 
When late we stray? 



THE LETTER L. 105 



" For she is come, for she is there, 
I heard it in the dusk, and heard 

Admiring words, that named her fair, 
But little stirred 

" By beauty of the wood and wave, 
And weary of an old man's sway ! 

For it was sweeter to enslave 
Than to obey." 

— The voice of one that near us stood, 

The rustle of a silken fold, 
A scent of eastern sandalwood, 

A gleam of gold ! 

A lady ! In the narrow space 

Between the husband and the wife, 

But nearest him — she showed a face 
With dangers rife ; 

A subtle smile that dimpling fled, 
As night-black lashes rose and fell : 

I looked, and to myself I said, 
" The Letter L." 

He, too, looked up, and with arrest 
Of breath and motion held his gaze, 

Nor cared to hide within his breast 
His deep amaze ; 

Nor spoke till on her near advance 
His dark cheek flushed a ruddier hue : 

And with his change of countenance 
Hers altered too. 

" Lenore ! " his voice was like the cry 
Of one entreating ; and he said 

But that — then paused with such a sigh 
As mourns the dead. 



io6 THE LETTER L. 



And seated near, with no demur 
Of bashful doubt she silence broke, 

Though I alone could answer her 
When first she spoke. 

She looked : her eyes were beauty's own ; 

She shed their sweetness into his ; 
Nor spared the married wife one moan 

That bitterest is. 

She spoke, and, lo, her loveliness 

Methought she damaged with her tongue : 

And every sentence made it less, 
So false they rung. 

The rallying voice, the light demand, 

Half flippant, half unsatisfied ; 
The vanity sincere and bland — 

The answers wide. 

And now her talk was of the East, 
And next her talk was of the sea ; 

" And has the love for it increased 
You shared with me ? " 

He answered not, but grave and still 
With earnest eyes her face perused, 

And locked his lips with steady will, 
As one that mused — 

That mused and wondered. Why his gaze 
Should dwell on her, methought, was plain ; 

But reason that should wonder raise 
I sought in vain. 

And near and near the children drew, 

Attracted by her rich array, 
And gems that trembling into view 

Like raindrops lay. 



THE LETTER E 



107 



He spoke : the wife her baby took 
And pressed the little face to hers ; 

What pain soe'er her bosom shook, 
What jealous stirs 

Might stab her heart, she hid them so, 
The cooing babe a veil supplied ; 

And if she listened none might know 
Or if she sighed ; 

Or if, forecasting grief and care, 
Unconscious solace thence she drew 

And lulled her babe, and unaware 
Lulled sorrow too. 

The lady, she interpreter 

For look or language wanted none, 
II* yet dominion stayed with her — 

So lightly won : 

If yet tlif In art she wounded sore 
Could yearn to her, and let her see 

The homage that was evermore 
Disloyalty ; 

If sign would yield that it had bled, 
Or rallied from the faithless blow, 

Or sick or sullen stooped to wed, 
She craved to know. 

Now dreamy deep, now sweetly keen, 
Her asking eyes would round him shine; 

But guarded lips and settled mien 
Refused the sign. 

And unbeguiled and unbetrayed, 
The wonder yet within his breast, 

It seemed a watchful part he played 
Against her quest. 



T oS THE LETTER Z. 



Until with accent of regret 

She touched upon the past once more, 
As if she dared him to forget 

His dream of yore. 

And words of little weight let fall 
The fancy of the lower mind ; 

How waxing life must needs leave all 
Its best behind ; 

How he had said that ' ' he would fain 
(One morning on the halcyon sea) 

That life would at a stand remain 
Eternally ; 

" And sails be mirrored in the deep, 
As then they were for evermore, 

And happy spirits w T ake and sleep 
Afar from shore : 

" The well-contented heart be fed 
Ever as then, and all the world 

(It were not small) unshadowed 
When sails were furled. 

'" Your words " — a pause, and quietly 
With touch of calm self -ridicule : 

" It may be so — for then," said he, 
" I was a fool." 

With that he took his book, and left 
An awkward silence to my care, 

That soon I filled with questions deft 
And debonair ; 

And slid into an easy vein, 

The favorite picture of the year ; 

The grouse upon her lord's domain — 
The salmon weir ; 



THE LETTER L. 109 



Till she could feign a sudden thought 
Upon neglected- guests, and rise 

And make us her adieux, with naught 
In her dark eyes 

Acknowledging or shame or pain ; 

P>ut just unveiling for our view 
A little smile of still disdain 

As she withdrew. 

Then nearer did the sunshine creep, 
And warmer came the wafting breeze ; 

The little babe was fast asleep 
On mother's knees. 

Fair was the face that o'er it leant, 

The cheeks with beauteous blushes dyed ; 

The downcast lashes, shyly bent, 
That failed to hide 

Some tender shame. She did not see ; 

She felt his eyes that would not stir ; 
She looked upon her babe, and he 

So looked at her. 

So grave, so wondering, so content, 
As one new waked to conscious life* 

Whose sudden joy with fear is blent, 
He said, "My wife." 

" My wife, how beautiful you are ! " 
Then closer at her side reclined ; 

" The bold brown woman from afar 
Comes, to me blind. 

" And by comparison I see 
The majesty of matron grace, 

And learn how pure, how fair can be 
My own wife's face : 



THE LETTER L. 



tk Pure with all faithful passion, fair 
With tender smiles that come and go; 

And comforting as April air 
After the snow. 

" Fool that I was ! my spirit frets 
And marvels at the humbling truth, 

That I have deigned to spend regrets 
On my bruised youth. 

" Its idol mocked thee, seated nigh, 
And shamed me for the mad mistake ; 

I thank my God he could deny, 
And she forsake. 

" Ah, who am I, that God hath saved 

Me from the doom I did desire, 
And crossed the lot myself had craved, 

To set me higher? 

" What have I done that He should bow 
From heaven to choose a wife for me ? 

And what deserved, He should endow 
My home with thee ? 

" My wife ! " With that she turned her face 
To kiss the hand about her neck ; 

And I went down and sought the place 
Where leaped the beck — 

The busy beck, that still would run 

And fall, and falter its refrain ; 
And pause and shimmer in the sun, 

And fall again. 

It led me to the sandy shore, 

We sang together, it and I — 
" The daylight comes, the dark is o'er, 

The shadows fly." 



THE HIGH TIDE, ETC. 



I lost it on the sandy shore, 

44 wife i " its latest murmurs fell, 
44 O wife, be glad and fear no more 

The letter L." 



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLN* 
SHIRE. 

(1571.) 

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, 

The ringers ran by two, by three ; 
44 Pull, if ye never pulled before ; 

Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. 
44 Play uppe, \Ai\y uppe, O Boston bells ! 
Ply all your changes, all your swells, 

Play uppe 4 The Brides of Enderby.' " 

Men say it was a stolen tyde — 

The Lord that sent it, He knows all ; 

But in myne ears doth still abide 
The message that the bells let fall : 

And there was naught of strange, beside 

The flight of maws and peewits pied 

By millions crouched on the old sea wall. 

I sat and spun within the doore, 

My thread break off, I raised myne eyes ; 

The level sun, like ruddy ore, 
Lay sinking in the barren skies ; 

And dark against day's golden death 

She moved where Lindis wandereth, 
My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 

44 Cusha! Cusha! Cusha ! " calling, 
Ere the earty dews were falling, 



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE 



Farre away I beard her song, 
" Cusha ! Cusha ! " all along ; 
Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 

Floweth, floweth, 
From the meads where melick groweth 
Faintly came her milking song — 

" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling, 
" For the dews will soone be falling ; 
Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot 
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow, 
From the clovers lift your head ; 
Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot, 
Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow, 
Jetty to the milking shed." 

If it be long, ay, long ago, 

When I beginne to think howe long, 
Againe I hear the Lindis flow, 

Swift as an arrowe. sharpe and strong; 
And all the aire, it seemeth mee, 
Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), 
That ring the tune of Enderby. 

Alle fresh the level pasture lay, 
And not a shadowe mote be seene, 

Save where full fyve good miles away 
The steeple towered from out the greene ; 

And lo ! the great bell farre and wide 

Was heard in all the country side 

That Saturday at eventide. 



COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. 113 



The swanherds where their sedges are 
Moved on in sunset's golden breath, 

The shepherde lads I heard afarre, 
And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; 

Till floating o'er the grassy sea 

Came downe that kyndly message free, 

The u Brides of Mavis Enderby." 

Then some looked uppe into the sky, 

And all along where Lindis flows 
To where the goodly vessels lie, 

And where the lordly steeple shows. 
They sayde, "And why should this thing he? 
What danger lowers by land or sea? 
They ring the time of Enderby ! 
" For evil news from Mablethorpe, 

Of pyrate galleys warping down ; 
For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, 

They have not spared to wake the towne ; 
But while the west bin red to see, 
And storms be none, and pyrates flee, 
Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?" 

I looked without, and lo ! my sonne 

Came riding downe with might and main : 
He raised a shout as he drew on, 
Till all the welkin rang again, 
" Elizabeth ! Elizabeth ! " 
(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 
Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 

" The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe, 

The rising tide comes on apace, 
And boats adrift in yonder towne 

Go sailing uppe the market-place." 
He shook as one that looks on death : 

God save you, mother ! " straight he saith ; 

Where is my wife, Elizabeth? " 



it 



114 THE HIGH TIDE ON THE 

" Good sonne, where Lindis winds her way, 

AVith her two bairns I marked tier long; 
And ere young bells beganne to play 

Afar I heard her milking song." 
He looked aeross the grassy lea, 
To right, to left, " Ho, Enderby ! " 
They rang " The Brides of Enderby ! " 
With that he cried and beat his breast; 

For lo ! along the river's bed 
A mighty eygre reared his crest, 

And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
It swept with thunderous noises loud ; 
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, 
Or like a demon in a shroud. 

And rearing Lindis backward pressed 

Shook all her trembling bankes ainaine ; 
Then madly at the eygre's breast 

Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 
Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout 
Then beaten foam flew round about — 
Then all the might} 7 floods were out. 
So farre, so fast the eygre drave, 

The heart had hardly -time to beat 
Before a shallow seething wave 

Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet : 
The feet had hardly time to flee 
Before it brake against the knee, 
And all the world was in the sea. 

Upon the roofe we sate that night, 
The noise of bells went sweeping by ; 

I marked the lofty beacon light 

Stream from the church tower, red and high- 

A lurid mark and dread to see ; 

And awsome bells they were to mee, 

That in the dark rang ' k Enderby." 



COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. ir 5 

The}' rang the sailor lads to guide 

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; 

And I — my sonne was at my side, 
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed ; 

And yet he moaned beneath his breath, 

'" O come in life, or come in death! 

lost ! my love, Elizabeth." 

And didst thou visit him no more? 

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare , 
The waters laid thee at his doore, 

Ere yet the early dawn was clear. 
The pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. 

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, 
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; 

A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! 

To manye more than myne and mee : 

But each will mourn his own (she saith) ; 

And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 

1 shall never hear her more 
By the reedy Lindis shore, 

" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling, 
Ere the early dews be falling ; 
I shall never hear her song, 
" Cusha ! Cusha ! " all along 
Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 

Goeth, floweth ; 
From the meads where melick groweth, 
When the water winding down, 
Onward floweth to the town. 

I shall never see her more 

Where the reeds and rushes quiver, 



n6 AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 



Shiver, quiver ; 
Stand beside the sobbing river, 
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling 
To the sandy lonesome shore ; 
I shall never hear her calling, 
" Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot ; 
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come uppe, Lighfoot, rise and follow ; 

Lightfoot, Whitefoot, 
From your clovers lift the head : 
Come uppe, Jetty, follow, follow, 
Jetty, to the milking shed." 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 
(the parson's brother, sister, and two children.) 
Preface. 
What wonder man should fail to stay 

A nursling wafted from above, 
The growth celestial come astray, 

That tender growth whose name is Love? 

It is as if high winds in heaven 

Had shaken the celestial trees, 
And to this earth below had given 

Some feathered seeds from one of these. 

O perfect love that 'dureth long ! 

Dear growth, that shaded by the palms, 
And breathed on by the angel's song, 

Blooms on in heaven's eternal calms! 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 117 

How great the task to guard thee here, 
Where wind is rough, and frost is keen, 

And all the ground with doubt and fear 
Is checkered birth and death between ! 

Space is against thee — it can part ; 

Time is against thee — it can chill ; 
Words — but they render half the heart; 

Deeds — they are poor to our rich will. 



Merton. Though she had loved me, I had never 

bound 
Her beauty to my darkness ; that had been 
Too hard for her. Sadder to look so near 
Into a face all shadow, than to stand 
Aloof, and then withdraw, and afterwards 
Suffer forgetfulness to comfort her. 

I think so, and I loved her ; therefore I 

Have no complaint ; albeit she is not mine : 

And yet — and yet, withdrawing I would fain 

She would have pleaded duty — would have said 

44 My father wills it ; " would have turned away, 

As lingering, or unwillingly ; for then 

She would have done no damage to the past : 

Now she has roughly used it — flung it down 

And brushed its bloom away. If she had said, 

44 Sir, I have promised ; therefore, lo ! my hand " — 

Would I have taken it? Ah, no ! by all 

Most sacred, no ! 

I would for my sole share 
Have taken first her recollected blush 
The day I won her ; next her shining tears — 
The tears of our long parting : and for all 
The rest — her cry, her bitter heartsick cry, 
That day or night (I know not which it was, 



Il8 AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 

The days being always night), that darkest night, 
When being led to her I heard her cry, 
"0 blind! blind! blind!" 

Go with thy chosen mate 
The fashion of thy going nearly cured 
The sorrow of it. I am yet so weak 
That half my thoughts go after thee ; but not 
80 weak that I desire to have it so. 

Jessie, seated at the piano, sings. 
AVhcn the dimpled water slippeth, 

Full of laughter, on its way, 
And her wing the wagtail dippeth, 

Running by the brink at play ; 
When the poplar leaves atremble 

Turn their edges to the light, 
And the far-up clouds resemble 

Veils of gauze most clear and white ; 
And the sunbeams fall and flatter 

Woodland moss and branches brown, 
And the glossy finches chatter 

Up and clown, up and down : 
Though the heart be not attending, 

Having music of her own, 
On the grass, through meadows wending, 

It is sweet to walk alone. 

When the falling waters utter 

Something mournful on their way, 
And departing swallows flutter 

Taking leave of bank and brae ; 
When the chaffinch idly sitteth 

With her mate upon the sheaves, 
And the wistful robin flitteth 

Over beads of yellow leaves; 
When the clouds, like ghosts that ponder 

Evil fate, float by ami frown, 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 119 

And the listless wind doth wander 

Up and down, op and down : 
Though the heart be not attending, 

Having sorrows of her own, 
Through the fields and fallows wending, 

It is sad to walk alone. 

Merton. Blind ! blind ! blind ! 
Oh ! sitting in the dark for evermore, 
And doing nothing — putting out a hand 
To feel what lies about me, and to say 
Not " This is blue or red," but " This is cold, 
And this the sun is shining on, and this 
1 know not till they tell its name to me." 

that I might behold once more, my God ! 
The shining rulers of the night and day ; 
Or a star twinkling ; or an almond-tree, 
Pink with her blossom and alive with bees, 
Standing against the azure ! O my sight ! 
Lost, and yet living in the sunlit cells 

Of memory — that only lightsome place 
Where lingers yet the dayspring of my youth : 
The years of mourning for thy death are long. 

Be kind, sweet memory ! O desert me not ! 
For oft thou show'st me lucent opal seas, 
Fringed with their cocoa-palms, and dwarf red crags t 
Whereon the placid moon doth kt rest her chin ; " 
For oft by favor of thy visitings 

1 feel the dimness of an Indian night, 
And lo ! the sun is coming. Red as rust 
Between the latticed blind his presence burns, 
A ruby ladder running up the wall ; 

And all the dust, printed with pigeons' feet, 
Is reddened, and the crows that stalk anear 



120 AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 

Begin to trail lor heat their glossy wings, 

And the red flowers give back at once the dew, 

For night is gone, and day is born so fast, 

And is so strong, that, huddled as in flight 

The fleeting darkness paleth to a shade, 

And while she calls to sleep and dreams " Come on, 

Suddenly waked, the sleepers rub their eyes, 

Which having opened, lo ! she is no more. 

O misery and mourning ! I have felt — 
Yes, I have felt like some deserted world 
That God had done with, and had cast aside 
To rock and stagger through the gulfs of space, 
He never looking on it any more — 
Untilled, no use, no pleasure, not desired, 
Nor lighted on by angels in their flight 
From heaven to happier planets, and the race 
That once had dwelt on it withdrawn or dead. 
Could such a world have hope that some blest day 
God would remember her, and fashion her 
Anew ? 

Jessie. What, dearest? Did you speak to me? 

Child. I think he spoke to us. 

M. No, little elves, 

You were so quiet that I half forgot 
Your neighborhood. What are yon doing there? 

F. They sit together on the window-mat 
Nursing their dolls. 

C. Yes, Uncle, our new dolls — 
Our best dolls, that you gave us. 

M. Did you say 

The afternoon was bright? 

F. Yes, bright indeed ! 

The sun is on the plane-tree, and it flames 
All red and orange. 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 121 

C. I can see my father — 

Look ! look ! the leaves are tailing on his gown. 

M. Where? 

C. In the churchy aid, Uncle — he is gone; 

He passed behind the tower. 

M. I heard a bell : 

There is a funeral, then, behind the church. 

2d Child. Are the trees sorry when their leaves 
drop off? 

1st Child. You talk such silly words ; — no, not 
at all. 
There goes another leaf. 

2d Child. I did not see. [hills, 

1st Child. Look ! on the grass, between the little 
Just where they planted Amy. 

F. Amy died — 

Dear little Amy ! when you talk of her, 
Say, she is gone to heaven. 

2d Child. They planted her — 

Will she come up next year? 

1st Child. No, not so soon ; 

But some day God will call her to come up, 
And then she will. Papa knows every thing — 
He said she would before he planted her. 

2d Child. It was at night she went to heaven. 
Last night 
We saw a star before we went to bed. 

1st Child. Yes, Uncle, did you know? 
A large bright star, 
And at her side she had some little ones — 
Some young ones. 

M. Young ones ! no, my little maid, 
Those stars are very old. 

1st Child. What! all of them? 

M. Yes. 

1st Child. Older than our father? 



122 AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 

M. Older, far. 

2d Child. The}' must be tired of shining there so 
long. 
Perhaps they wish they might come down. 

F. Perhaj s ! 

Dear children, talk of what you understand. 
Come, I must lift the trailing creepers up 
That last night's wind has loosened. 

1st Child. May we help? 

Aunt, may we help to nail them ! 

F. We shall see. 

Go, find and bring the hammer, and some shreds. 

[Steps outside the windoiv, lifts a branch and sings. ~] 

Should I change my allegiance for rancor 

If fortune changes her side ? 
Or should I, like a vessel at anchor, 

Turn with the turn of the tide? 
Lift ! O lift, thou lowering sky ; 

An thou wilt, thy gloom forego ! 
An thou wilt not, he and I 

Need not part for drifts of snow. 

M. [within']. Lift! no, thou lowering sky, thou 
wilt not lift — 
Thy motto readeth, "Never." 

Children. Here they are ! 

Here are the nails ! and may we help ? 

F. You shall, 

If I should want help. 

1st Child. Will yon want it then? 
Please want it — we like nailing. 

2d Child. Yes, we do. 

F. It seems I ought to want it ; hold the bough, 
And each may nail in turn. 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 



123 



[Sings.] 

Like a daisy I was, near him growing : 

Must I move because favors flag, 
A. id be like a brown wall-flower blowing 

Far out of reach in a crag? 
Lift ! O lift, thou lowering sky ; 

An thou canst, thy blue regain ! 
And thou canst not, he and I 

Need not part for drops of rain. 

1st Child. Now, have we nailed enough? 

J. [trains the creepers']. Yes, you may go ; 
But do not play too near the churchyard path. 

M. [within] . Even misfortune does not strike so 
near 
As my dependence. O, in youth and strength 
To sit a timid coward in the dark, 
And feel before I set a cautious step ! 
It is so very dark, so far more dark 
Than any night that day comes after — night 
In which there would be stars, or else at least 
The silvered portion of a sombre cloud 
Through which the moon is plunging. 

J. [entering]. Merton ! 

M. Yes. 

J. Dear Merton, did you know that I could hear? 

M. No : e'en my solitude is not mine now, 
And if I be alone is of ttimes doubt. 
Alas ! far more than eyesight have I lost ; 
For manly courage drifteth after it — 
E'en as a splintered spar would drift away 
From some dismasted wreck. Hear, I complain — 
Like a weak ailing woman I complain. 

J. For the first time. 

M. I cannot bear the dark. 

J. My brother ! you do bear it — bear it well — 
Have borne it twelve long months, and not complained. 



124 AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 

Comfort your heart with music : all the air 

Is warm with sunbeams where the organ stands. 

You like to feel them on you. Come and play. 

M. My fate, my fate, is lonely ! 

J. So it is — 

I know it is. 

M. And pity breaks my heart. 

J. Does it, dear Merton ? 

M. Yes, I sa}' it does. 

What ! do you think I am so dull of ear 
That I can mark no changes, in the tones 
That reach me? Once I liked not girlish pride 
And that coy quiet, chary of reply, 
That held me distant : now the sweetest lips 
Open to entertain me — fairest hands 
Are proffered me to guide. 

J. That is not well ? 

M. No : give me coldness, pride, or still disdain. 
Gentle withdrawal. Give me anything 
But this — a fearless, sweet, confiding ease, 
Whereof I may expect, I may exact, 
Considerate care, and have it — gentle speech, 
And have it. Give me anything but this ! 
For they who give it, give it in the faith 
That I will not misdeem them, and forget 
My doom so far as to perceive thereb}" 
Hope of a wife. The}' make this thought too plain ; 
They wound me — O they cut me to the heart ! 
When have I said to any one of them, 
" I am a blind and desolate man ; — come here, 
I pray you — be as eyes to me?" When said, 
Even to her whose pitying voice is sweet 
To ray dark ruined heart, as must be hands 
That clasp a lifelong captive's through the grate, 
And who will ever lend her delicate aid 
To guide me, dark incumbrance that I am ! — 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 125 

When have I said to her, " Comforting voice, 
Belonging to a face unknown, I pray 
Be my wife's voice?" 

J. Never, my brother — no, 

You never have ! 

M. What could she think of me 

If I forgot myself so far? or what 
Could she reply ? 

J. You ask not as men ask 

Who care for an opinion, else, perhaps, 
Although I am not sure — although, perhaps, 
I have no right to give one — I should say 
She would reply, " I will ! " 



Afterthought. 

Man dwells apart, though uot alone, 
He walks among his peers unread ; 

The best of thoughts which he hath known 
For lack of listeners are not said. 

Yet dreaming on earth's clustered isles, 
He saith, " They dwell not lone like men." 

Forgetful that their sunflecked smiles 
Flash far beyond each other's ken. 

He looks on God's eternal suns 

That sprinkle the celestial blue, 
And saith, "Ah! happy shining ones, 

I would that men were grouped like you ! " 

Yet this is sure : the loveliest star 
That clustered with its peers we see, 

Only because from us so far 

Doth near its fellows seem to be. 



126 SONGS OF SEVEN. 

SONGS OF SEVEN. 

SEVEN TIMES ONE. EXULTATION. 

There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, 

There's no rain left in heaven : 
I've said 1x13' u seven times" over and over, 

Seven times one are seven. 

I am old, so old, I can write a letter ; 

My birthday lessons are done ; 
The lambs play always, they know no better ; 

They are only one times one. 

moon ! in the night I have seen yon sailing 
And shining so round and low ; 

You were bright ! ah, bright ! but your light is fail- 
ing, — 
You are nothing now but a bow. 

You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven 
That God has hidden your face ? 

1 hope if you have you will soon be forgiven, 
And shine again in your place. 

O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow? 

You've powdered your legs with gold ! 
O brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow, 

Give me your money to hold ! 

O columbine, open your folded wrapper, 
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! 

cuckoopint, toll me the purple clapper 
That hangs in your clear green bell ! 

And show me your nest with the young ones in it; 
I will not steal them away ; 

1 am old ! yon may trust me, linnet, linnet — 
I am seven times one to-day. 



SONGS OF SEVEN. 127 



SEVEN TIMES TWO. ROMANCE. 

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, 

How many soever they be, 
And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges 

Come over, come over to me. 

Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling 

No magical sense conveys, 
And bells have forgotten their old art of telling 

The fortune of future days. 

44 Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily, 

While a boy listened alone ; 
Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily 

All by himself on a stone. 

Poor bells ! I forgive you ; your good days are over, 

And mine, they are yet to be ; 
No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover 

You leave the story to me. 

The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather 

Preparing her hoods of snow ; 
She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: 

O, children take long to grow. 

I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster, 

Nor long summer bide so late ; 
And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, 

For some things are ill to wait. 

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, 
While dear hands arc- laid on my head ; 

44 The child is a woman, the book may close over, 
For all the lessons are said." 



SONGS OF SEVEN. 



I wait for my story — the birds cannot sing it, 

Not one, as he sits on the tree ; 
The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it ! 

Such as I wish it to be. 



SEVEN TIMES THREE. LOVE. 

I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover, 

Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate ; 
;t Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one 
lover — 
Hush, nightingale, hush ! O, sweet nightingale, 
wait 
Till I listen and hear 
If a step draweth near, 
For my love he is late ! 

" The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, 

A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, 
The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer : 
To what art thou listening, and what dost thou 
see? 
Let the star-clusters grow, 
Let the sweet waters flow, 
And cross quickly to me. 

" You night moths that hover where honey brims 
over 
From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep ; 
You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover 
To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. 
Ah, my sailor, make haste, 
For the time runs to waste, 
And my love lieth deep — 

" Too deep for swift telling ; and yet, my one lover, 
I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." 
By the sycamore passed he, and through the white 
clover, 



SOA r GS OF seven: 129 

Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took 
flight ; 
But I'll love him more, more 
Than e'er wife loved before, 
Be the days dark or bright. 



SEVEN TIMES FOUR. MATERNITY. 

Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups, 

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall ! 

When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses, 
And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small ! 

Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses 
Eager to gather them all. 

Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups ! 

Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ; 
Sing them a song of the pretty hedge sparrow, 
That loved her brown little ones, loved them full 
fain : 
Sing, " Heart, thou art wide though the house be 
but narrow " — 
Sing once, and sing it again. 

Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups, 

Sweet wagging cowslips they bend and the}' bow ; 
A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, 

And haply one musing doth stand at her prow. 
O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters, 

Maybe he thinks on you now ! 

Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups, 

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall ! 

A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, 

And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall ! 

Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its meas- 
ure, 
God that is over us all ! 



i 3 o SONGS OF SEVEN. 



SEVEN TIMES FIVE. WIDOWHOOD. 

I sleep and rest, my heart makes moan 

Before I am well awake ; 
" Let me bleed ! O let me alone ; 

Since I must not break !" 

For children wake, though fathers sleep 
With a stone at foot and head : 

sleepless God, forever keep, 
Keep both living and dead ! 

1 lift mine eyes, and what to see 
And a world happy and fair ! 

I have not wished it to mourn with me — 
Comfort is not there. 

O what an ear but golden brooms, 
But a waste of reedy rills ! 

what afar but the fine glooms 
On the rare blue hills ! 

1 shall not die, but live forlore — 
How bitter it is to part ! 

to meet thee, my love, once more! 
O my heart, my heart ! 

No more to hear, no more to see ! 

that an echo might wake 

And waft one note of thy psalm to me 
Ere my heart-strings break ! 

1 should know it how faint soe'er, 
And with angel voices blent ; 

O once to feel thy spirit anear ; 

1 could be content ! 



SONGS OF SEVEN. 131 

Or once between the gates of gold, 

While an entering angel trod, 
But once — thee sitting to behold 

On the hills of God ! 



SEVEN TIMES SIX. GIVING IN MARRIAGE. 

To bear, to nurse, to rear, 

To watch, and then to lose : 
To see m}' bright ones disappear, 

Drawn up like morning dews — 
To bear, to nurse, to rear, 

To watch, and then to lose : 
This have I done when God drew near 

Among his own to choose. 

To hear, to heed, to wed, 

And with thy lord depart 
In tears that he, as soon as shed, 

Will let no longer smart. — 
To hear, to heed^ to wed, 

This while thou didst I smiled, 
For now it was not God who said, 

u Mother, give me thy child." 

O fond, O fool, and blind ! 

To God I gave with tears ; 
But when a man like grace would find, 

My soul put by her fears — 
O fond, O fool, and blind! 

God guards in happier spheres ; 
That man will guard where he did bind 

Is hope for unknown years. 

To hear, to heed, to wed, 

Fair lot that maidens choose, 

Thy mother's tenderest words are said, 
Thy face no more she views ; 



1 32 SONGS OF SEVEN. 



Thy mother's lot, my dear, 
She doth in nought accuse ; 

Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, 
To love — and then to lose. 



SEVEN TIMES SEVEN. LONGING FOR HOME. 
I. 

A song of a boat : — 
There was once a boat on a billow : 
Lightly she rocked to her port remote, 
And the foam was white in her wake like snow, 
And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow, 
And bent like a wand of willow. 



I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat 

Went curtseying over the billow, 
I marked her course till a dancing mote 
She faded out on the moonlit foam, 
And I stayed behind in the dear loved home ; 
And my thoughts all day were about the boat 
And my dreams upon the pillow. 

in. 

I pray you hear my song of a boat, 

For it is but short : — 
My boat you shall find none fairer afloat, 

In river or port. 
Long I looked out for the lad she bore, 

On the open desolate sea, 
And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore, 

For he came not back to me — 

Ah me ! 



SOJVGS OF SEVEN. 133 

IV. 

A song of a nest : — 
There was once a nest in a hollow : 
Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed, 
Soft and warm, and full to the brim — 
Vetches leaned over it purple and dim, 
With buttercup buds to follow. 

v. 
I pray you hear my song of a nest, 

For it is not long : — 
You shall never light, in a summer quest, 

The bushes among — 
Shall never light on a prouder sitter, 

A fairer nestful, nor ever know 
A softer sound than their tender twitter, 

That wind-like did come and sro. 



I had a nestful once of my own, 

Ah, happy, happy I ! 
Right dearly I loved them : but when they were 
grown 

They spread out their wings to fly — 
O, one after one they flew away 

Far up to the heavenly blue, 
To the better country, the upper day, 

And — I wish I was going too. 

VII. 

I pray you what is the nest to me, 

My empty nest? 
And what is the shore where I stood to see 

My boat sail down to the west? 
Can I call that home where I anchor yet, 

Though my good man has sailed ? 
Can I call that home where my nest was set, 

Now all its hope hath failed? 



134 



A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. 



Nay, but the port where my sailor went, 
And the land where my nestlings be : 

There is the home where my thoughts are sent, 
The only home for me — 

Ah me ! 



A COTTAGE IN A CHINE 

We reached the place by night, 

And heard the waves breaking : 
They came to meet us with candles alight 

To show the path we were taking. 
A myrtle, trained on the gate, was white 

With tufted flowers down shaking. 

With head beneath her wing, 

A little wren was sleeping — 
So near, I had found it an easy thing 

To steal her for my keeping 
From the myrtle bough that with easy swing 

Across the path was sweeping. 

Down rocky steps rough-hewed, 

Where cup -mosses flowered, 
And under the trees, all twisted and rude, 

Wherewith the dell was dowered, 
They led us, where deep in its solitude 

La}' the cottage, leaf -embowered. 

The thatch was all bespread 

With climbing passion flowers ; 
They were wet, and glistened with rain-drops, shed 

That day in genial showers. 
" Was never a sweeter nest/' we said, 

"Than this little nest of ours." 



A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. 135 

We laid us down to sleep : 

But as for me — waking, 
I marked the plunge of the muffled deep 

On its sandy reaches breaking ; 
For heart-joy aDce doth sometimes keep 

From slumber, like heart-aching. 

And I was glad that night, 

With no reason ready, 
To give my own heart for its deep delight, 

That flowed like some tidal eddy, 
Or shone like a star that was rising bright 

With comforting radiance steady. 

But on a sudden — hark ! 

Music struck asunder 
Those meshes of bliss, and I wept in the dark, 

So sweet was the unseen wonder ; 
So swiftly it touched, as if struck at a mark, 

The trouble that joy kept under. 

I rose — the moon outshone : 

I saw the sea heaving, 
And a little vessel sailing alone, 

The small crisp wavelet cleaving ; 
'Twas she as she sailed to her port unknown — 

Was that track of sweetness leaving. 

We know they music made 

In heaven, ere man's creation ; 
But when God threw it down to us that strayed, 

It dropt with lamentation, 
And ever since doth its sweetness shade 

With sighs for its first station. 

Its joy suggests regret — 

Ite most for more is yearning ; 
And it brings to the soul that its voice hath met 



136 A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. 

No rest that cadence learning, 
But a conscious part in the sighs that fret 
Its nature for returning. 

Eve, sweet Eve ! me thought 
When sometimes comfort winning, 

As she watched the first children's tender sport, 

Sole joy born since her sinning, 
If a bird anear them sang, it brought 

The pang as at beginning. 

While swam the unshed tear, 

Her prattlers, little heeding, 
Would murmur, " This bird, with its carol clear, 

When the red clay was kneaden, 
And God made Adam our father dear, 

Sang to him thus in Eden." 

The moon went in — the sky 
And earth and sea hiding ; 

1 laid me down, with the yearning sigh 
Of that strain in my heart abiding ; 

I slept, and the bark that had sailed so nigh 
In nry dream was ever gliding. 

I slept, but waked amazed, 

With sudden noise frighted, 
And voices without, and a flash that dazed 

My eyes from candles lighted. 
" Ah ! surely," methought, "by these shouts upraised 

Some travellers are benighted." 

A voice was at my side — 

" Waken, madam, waken J 
The long prayed-for ship at her anchor doth ride. 

Let the child from its rest be taken, 
For the captain doth weary for babe and for bride — 

Waken, madam, waken! 



A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. 137 

" The home you left but late, 

He speeds to it light-hearted ; 
By the wires he sent this news, and straight 

To you with it they started." 
O joy for a yearning heart too great, 

O union for the parted ! 

We rose up in the night, 

The morning star was shining ; 
We carried the child in its slumber light 

Out by the myrtles twining : 
Orion over the sea hung bright, 

And glorious in declining. 

Mother, to meet her son, 

Smiled first, then wept the rather ; 
And wife, to bind up those links undone, 

And cherished words to gather, 
And to show the face of her little one, 

That had never seen its father. 

That cottage in a chine, 

We were not to behold it ; 
But there may the purest of sunbeams shine, 

May freshest flowers enfold it, 
For the sake of the news which our hearts must twin 

AV ith the bower where we were told it ! 

Now oft, left alone again, 

Sit mother and sit daughter, 
And bless the good ship that sailed over the main, 

And the favoring winds that brought her ; 
While still some new beauty they fable and feign 

For the cottage by the water. 



138 PERSEPHONE. 



PERSEPHONE. 

[Written for The Portfolio Society, January, 1862.] 
Subject given — " Light and Shade." 

She stepped upon Sicilian grass, 
Demeter's daughter fresh and fair, 

A child of light, a radiant lass, 
And gamesome as the morning air. 

The daffodils were fair to see, 

They nodded lightly on the lea, 

Persephone — Persephone ! 

Lo ! one she marked of rarer growth 

Than orchis or anemone ; 
For it the maiden left them both, 

And parted from her company. 
Drawn nigh she deemed it fairer still, 
And stooped to gather by the rill 
The daffodil, the daffodil. 

What ailed the meadow that it shook? 

What ailed the air of Sicily? 
She wondered by the brattling brook, 

And trembled with the trembling lea. 
" The coal-black horses rise — they rise : 
O mother, mother ! " low she cries — 
Persephone — Persephone ! 

" O light, light, light ! " she cries, " farewell ; 

The coal-black horses wait for me. 
O shade of shades, where I must dwell, 

Demeter, mother, far from thee 1 
Ah, fated doom that I fulfil ! 
Ah, fateful flower beside the rill! 
The daffodil, the daffodil ! " 



PERSEPHONE. 139 



What ails her that she comes not home? 

Demeter seeks her far and wide, 
Arid gloomy-browed doth ceaseless roam 

From many a morn till eventide. 
" My lite, immortal though it be, 
Is nought," she cries, kt for want of thee, 
Persephone — Persephone ! 
"Meadows of Enna, let the rain 

No longer drop to feed your rills, 
Nor dew refresh the fields again, 

With all their nodding daffodils ! 
Fade, fade and droop, O lilied lea, 
Where thou, dear heart, wert reft from me 
Persephone — Persephone ! " 

She reigns upon her dusky throne, 

'Mid sh.-des of heroes dread t<. Bee ; 
Among the dead she breathes alone, 

Persephone— Persephone ! 
Or seated on the Elysian hill 
She dream- of earthly daylight still, 
And murmurs of the daffodil. 
A voice in Hades soundeth clear, 

The shadows mourn and Hit below; 
It cr - ies — "Thou Lord of Hades, hear. 

And let Demeters daughter go. 
The tender corn upon the lea 
Dn.ops in her goddess gloom when she 
Cries for her lost Persephone. 
" From land to laud she raging flies, 

The green fruit falleth in her wake. 
And harvest fields beneath her eyes 

To earth the grain unripened shake. 
Arise, and set the maiden free ; 
Why should the world such sorrow dree 
By reason of Persephone ? " 



1 40 PERSEPHONE. 



He takes the cleft pomegranate seeds : 
u Love, eat with me this parting day ; " 

Then bids them fetch the coal-black steeds — 
" Demeter's daughter, wouldst away?" 

The gates of Hades set her free ; 

" She will return full soon," said he — 

" M} T wife, my wife Persephone." 

Low laughs the dark king on his throne — 
" I gave her of pomegranate seeds." 

Demeter's daughter stands alone 
Upon the fair Eleusian meads. 

Her mother meets her. " Hail," saith she ; 

" And doth our daylight dazzle thee, 

My love, my child Persephone? 

" What moved thee, daughter, to forsake 
Thy fellow-maids that fatal morn, 

And give thy dark lord the power to take 
Thee living to his realm forlorn ? " 

Her lips reply without her will, 

As one addressed who slumbereth still — 

" The daffodil, the daffodil ! " 

Her eyelids droop with light oppressed, 
And sunny wafts that round her stir, 

Her cheek upon her mother's breast — 
Demeter's kisses comfort her. 

Calm Queen of Hades, art thou she 

Who stepped so lightly on the lea — 

Persephone, Persephone? 

When, in her destined course, the moon 
Meets the deep shadow of this world, 

And laboring on doth seem to swoon 

Through awful wastes of dimness whirled - 

Emerged at length, no trace hath she 

Of that dark hour of destiny, 

Still silvery sweet — Persephone. 



A SEA SONG. 



The greater world may near the less, 

And draw it through her weltering shade, 

But not one biding trace impress 
Of all the darkness that she made ; 

The greater soul that draweth thee 

Hath left his shadow plain to see 

On thy dear face, Persephone ! 



Demeter sighs, but sure 'tis well 
The wife should love her destiny : 

They part, and yet, as legends tell, 
She mourns her lost Persephone ; 

While chant the maids of Enna still — 

" O fateful llower beside the rill — 

The daffodil, the daffodil ! " 



A SEA SONG. 

Old Albion sat on a crag of late, 
And sung out — tk Ahoy ! ahoy ! 
Long life to the captain, good luck to the mate, 
And this to my sailor boy ! 
Come over, come home, 
Through the salt foam, 
My sailor, my sailor boy ! 

" Here's a crown to be given away, I ween, 

A crown for my sailor's head, 
And all for the worth of a widowed queen, 
And the love of the noble dead. 
And the fear and lame 
Of the island's name 
Where my boy was born and bred. 

;t Content thee, content thee, let it alone, 
Thou marked for a choice so rare ; 



i 4 2 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON". 

Though treaties be treaties, never a throne 
Was proffered for cause as fair. 

Yet come to me home, 

Through the salt sea foam, 
For the Greek must ask elsewhere. 

14 Tis a pity, my sailor, but who can tell? 

Many lands they look to me ; 
One of these might be wanting a Prince as well, 
But that's as hereafter may be." 
She raised her white head 
And laughed ; and she said, 
" That's as hereafter may be." 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

It was a village built in a green rent, 

Between two cliffs that skirt the dangerous bay. 

A reef of level rock runs out to sea, 
And you may lie on it and look sheer down, 
Just where the ; ' Grace of Sunderland" was lost, 
And see the elastic banners of the dulse 
Rock softly, and the orange star-fish creep 
Across the laver, and the mackerel shoot 
Over and under it, like silver boats 
Turning at will and plying under water. 

There on that reef we lay upon our breasts, 
My brother and I, and half the village lads, 
For an old fisherman had called to us [they ? n 

With " Sirs, the syle be come." "And what are 
My brother said. " Good lack ! " the old man cried, 
And shook his head ; " to think you gentlefolk 
Should ask what syle be ! Look you ; I can't say 
What syle be called in your fine dictionaries, 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 143 

Nor what name God Almighty calls them by 
When their food's ready and He sends them south: 
But our folk call them syle, and nought but syle, 
And -when they're grown, why then we call them 

herring. 
I tell von, Sir, the water is as full 
Of them as pastures be of blades of grass; 
You'll draw a score out in a landing net, 
And none of them be Longer than a pin. 

tk Svle ! ay, indeed, we should be badly off, 

1 reckon, and so would God Almighty's gulls," 

He grumbled on in his quaint piety, 

" And all His other birds, if He should say 

I will not drive my syle into the south ; 

The fisher folk may do without my syle, 

And do without the shoal of fish it draws 

To follow and feed on it." 

This said", we made 
Our peace with him by means of two small coins, 
And down we ran and lay upon the reef, 
And saw the swimming infants, emerald green. 
In separate shoals, the scarcely turning ebb 
Bringing them in ; while sleek, and not intent 
On chase, but taking that which came t<> hand, 
The full-fed mackerel and the gurnet swam 
Between ; and settling on the polished e 
A thousand snow-white gulls sat lovingly 
In social rings, and twittered while they fed. 
The village dogs and ours, elate and brave, 
Lay looking over, barking at the fish ; 
Fast, fast the silver creatures took the bait. 
And when they heaved and floundered on the rock, 
In beauteous misery, a sudden pat 
Some shaggy pup would deal, then back away, 
At distance eye them with sagacious doubt, 
And shrink half frighted from the slipper}' things. 



144 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

And so we lay from ebb-tide, till the flow 
Rose hi^h enough to drive us from the reef; 
The fisher lads went home across the sand ; 
We climbed the cliff, and sat an hour or more, 
Talking and looking down. It was not talk 
Of much significance, except for this — 
That we had more in common than of old, 
For both were tired, I with overwork, 
He with inaction ; I was glad at heart 
To rest, and he was glad to have an ear 
That he could grumble to, and half in jest 
Rail at entails, deplore the fate of heirs, 
And the misfortune of a good estate — 
Misfortune that was sure to pull him down, 
Make him a dreamy, selfish, useless man : 
Indeed he felt himself deteriorate 
Already. Thereupon he sent down showers 
Of clattering stones, to emphasize his words, 
And leap the cliffs and tumble noisily 
Into the seething wave. And as for me, 
I railed at him and at ingratitude, 
While rifling of the basket he had slung 
Across his shoulders ; then with right good will 
We fell to work, and feasted like the gods, 
Like laborers, or like eager workhouse folk 
At Yuletide dinner ; or, to say the whole 
At once, like tired, hungry, healthy youth, 
Until the meal being o'er, the tilted flask 
Drained of its latest drop, the meat and bread 
And ruddy cherries eaten, and the dogs 
Mumbling the bones, this elder brother of mine- 
This man that never felt an ache or pain 
In his broad, well-knit frame, and never knew 
The trouble of an unforgiven grudge, 
The sting of a regretted meanness, nor 
The desperate struggle of the unendowed 
For place and for possession — he began 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. I45 



To sing a rhyme that he himself had wrought ; 

Sending it out with cogitative pause, 

As if the scene where he had shaped it first 

Had rolled it back on him, and meeting it 

Thus unaware, he was of doubtful mind 

Whether his dignity it well beseemed 

To sing of pretty maiden : 

Goldilocks sat on the grass, 

Tying up of posies rare ; 
Hardly could a sunbeam pass 

Through the cloud that was her hair. 
Purple orchis lasteth long, 

Primrose flowers are pale and clear; 
O the maiden sang a, song 

It would do you good to hear ! 

Sad before her leaned the boy, 

"Goldilocks that I love well, 
Happy creature fair and coy, 

Think o' me, Sweet Amabel," 
Goldilocks she shook apart, 

Looked with doubtful, doubtful eyes; 
Like a blossom on her heart 

Opened out her first surprise. 

As a gloriole sign o' grace, 

Goldilocks, ah, fall and flow 
On the blooming childlike face, 

Dimple, dimple, come and go. 
Give her time ; on grass and sky 

Let her gaze if she be fain : 
As they looked ere he drew nigh, 

They will never look again. 

Ah ! the playtime she has known, 
While her goldilocks grew long, 
Is it like a nestling flown, 



146 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

Childhood over like a song ? 
Yes, the boy may clear his brow, 

Though she thinks to say him nay, 
When she sighs, " I cannot now — 

Come again some other day." 

" Hold there ! " he cried, half angry with himself ; 

fc * That ending goes amiss : " then turned again 

To the old argument that we had held — 

ct Now look you ! " said my brother, tk You may talk 

Till, weary of the talk, I answer 'Ay, 

There's reason in your words ; ' and you may talk 

Till I go on to say, ' This should be so ; ' 

And you may talk till I shall further own 

' It is so ; yes, I am a lucky dog ! ' 

Yet not the less shall I next morning wake, 

And with a natural and fervent sigh, 

Such as you never heaved, I shall exclaim 

' What an unlucky dog I am ! ' " And here 

He broke into a laugh. " But as for you — 

You ! on all hands you have the best of me ; 

Men have not robbed you of your birthright — work, 

Nor ravaged in old days a peaceful field, 

No- wedded heiresses against their will, 

Nor sinned, nor slaved, nor stooped, nor overreached, 

That you might drone a useless life away 

'Mid half a score of bleak and barren farms 

And half a dozen bogs." 

"O rare!" I cried; 
" His wrongs go nigh to make him eloquent : 
Now we behold how far bad actions reach ! 
Because five hundred years ago a Knight 
Drove geese and beeves out from a Franklin's yard ; 
Because three hundred years ago a squire — 
Against her will, and for her fair estate — 
Married a very ugly, red-haired maid, 
The blest inheritor of all their pelf, 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 14 7 

While in the full enjoyment of the same, 

Sighs on his own confession eveiy day. 

He cracks no egg without a moral sigh, 

Nor eats of beef but thiuking on that wrong ; 

Then, 3-et the more to be revenged on them, 

And shame their ancient pride, if they should know, 

Works hard as airy horse for his degree, 

And takes to writing verses." 

" Ay," he said, 
Half laughing at himself. " Yet you and I, 
But for those tresses which enrich us yet 
With somewhat of the hue that partial fame 
Calls auburn when it shines on heads of heirs, 
But when it flames round brows of younger sons, 
Just red — mere red ; why, but for this, I say, 
And but for selfish getting of the land, 
And beggarly entailing it, we two, 
To-day well fed, well grown, well dressed, well read, 
We might have been two horny-handed boors — 
Lean, clumsy, ignorant, and ragged boors — 
Planning for moonlight nights a poaching scheme, 
Or soiling our dull souls and consciences 
With plans for pilfering a cottage roost. 

"What chorus! are you dumb? you should have 

cried, 
* So good comes out of evil ; ' " and with that, 
As if all pauses it was natural 
To seize for songs, his voice broke out again: 

Coo, dove, to thy unmarried mate — 

She has two warm eggs in her nest : 
Tell her the hours are few to wait 

Ere life shall dawn on their rest ; 
And thy young shall peck at the shells, elate 

With a dream of her brooding breast. 



148 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



Coo, dove, for she counts the hours, 

Her fair wings ache for flight : 
By day the apple has grown in the flowers, 

And the moon has grown by night, 
And the white drift settled from hawthorn bowers, 

Yet they will not seek the light. 
Coo, dove ; but what of the sky? 

And what if the storm-wind swell, 
And the reeling branch come down from on high 

To the grass where daisies dwell, 
And the brood beloved should with them lie 

Or ever they break the shell? 
Coo, dove ; and yet black clouds lower, 

Like fate, on the far-off sea : 
Thunder and wind they bear to thy bower, 

As on wings of destiny. 
Ah, what if they break in an evil hour, 

As they broke over mine and me? 
What next? — we started like to girls, for lo ! 
The creaking voice, more harsh than rusty crane, 
Of one who stooped behind us, cried aloud, 
" Good lack ! how sweet the gentleman does sing - 
So loud and sweet, 'tis like to split his throat. 
Why, Mike's a child to him, a two-years child — 
A Chrisom child." 

" Who's Mike? " my brother growled 
A little roughly. Quoth the fisherman — 
" Mike, Sir? he's just a fisher lad, no more ; 
But he can sing, when he takes on to sing, 
So loud there's not a sparrow in the spire 
But needs must hear. Sir, if I might make bold, 
I'd ask what song that was you sung. My mate, 
As we were shoving off the mackerel boats, 
Said he, ' I'll wager that's the sort o' song 
They kept their hearts up with in the Crimea.' " 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 149 

" There, fisherman," quoth I, " he showed his wit, 
Your mate ; he marked the sound of savage war — 
Gunpowder, groans, hot-shot, and bursting shells, 
And ' murderous messages,' delivered b}* 
Spent balls that break the heads of dreaming men." 

"Ay, ay. Sir ! " quoth the fisherman. "Have done ! ' ; 
My brother. And I — "The gift belongs to few 
Of sending farther than the words can reach 
Their spirit and expression ; " still — " Have done ! " 
He cried ; and then " I rolled the rubbish out 
More loudly than the meaning warranted, 
To air my lungs — I thought not on the words." 

Then said the fisherman, who missed the point, 

" So Mike rolls out the psalm ; you'll hear him, Sir, 

Please God you live till Sunday." 

" Even so : 
And you, too, fisherman ; for here, they say, 
You all are church-goers." 

" Surely, Sir," quoth he, 
Took off his hut, and stroked his old white head 
And wrinkled face ; then sitting by us said, 
As one that utters with a quiet mind 
Unchallenged truth — ik 'Tis lucky for the boats." 

The boats ! 'tis lucky for the boats ! Our eyes 
Were drawn to him as either fain would say, 
What ! do they send the psalm up in the spire, 
And pray because 'tis lucky for the boats ? 
But he, the brown old man, the wrinkled man, 
That all his life had been a church-goer, 
Familiar with celestial cadences, 
Informed of all he could receive, and sure 
Of all he understood — he sat content, 
And we kept silence. In his reverend face 



150 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

There was a simpleness we could not sound ; 
Much truth had passed him overhead ; some error 
IJe had trod under foot ; — God comfort him ! 
He could not learn of us, for we were young 
And he was old, and so we gave it up ; 
And the sun went into the west, and down 
Upon the water stooped an orange cloud, 
And the pale milky reaches flushed, as glad 
To wear its colors ; and the sultry air 
AVent out to sea, and puffed the sails of ships 
With thymy wafts, the breath of trodden grass : 
It took moreover music, for across 
The heather belt and over pasture land 
Came the Iweet monotone of one slow bell, 
And parted time into divisions rare, 
Whereof each morsel brought its own delight. 

" They ring for service," quoth the fisherman ; 
"Our parson preaches in the church to-night." 

" And do the people go? " my brother asked. 

"Ay, Sir ; they count it mean to stay away, 
He takes it so to heart. He's a rare man, 
Our parson ; half a head above us all." 

" That's a great gift, and notable," said I. 

" Ay, Sir ; and when he was a younger man 

He went out in the life-boat very oft, 

Before the ' Grace of Sunderland ' was wrecked. 

He's never been his own man since that hour ; 

For there were thirty men aboard of her, 

Anigh as close as you are now to me, 

And ne'er a one was saved. 

They're lying now, 
With two small children, in a row : the church 
And yard are full of seamen's graves, and few 
Have any names. 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 151 

She bumped upon the reef ; 
Our parson, my young son, and several more 
Were lashed together with a two-inch rope, 
And crept along to her ; their mates ashore 
Ready to haul them in. The gale was high, 
The sea was all a boiling, seething froth, 
And God Almighty's guns were going off, 
And the land trembled. 

" When she took the ground, 
She went to pieces like a lock of hay 
Tossed from a pitchfork. Ere it came to that, 
The captain reeled on deck with two small things, 
One in each arm — his little lad and lass. 
Their hair was long, and blew before his face, 
Or else we thought he had been saved ; he fell, 
But held them fast. The crew, poor luckless souls ! 
The breakers licked them off ; and some were crushed, 
Some swallowed in the yeast, some flung up dead, 
The dear breath beaten out of them : not one 
Jumped from the wreck upon the reef to catch 
The hands that strained to reach, but tumbled back 
With eyes wide open. But the captain lay 
And clung — the only man alive. They prayed — 
4 For God's sake, captain, throw the children here ! ' 
4 Throw them ! ' our parson cried ; and then she struck : 
And he threw one, a pretty two-years child ; 
But the gale dashed him on the slippery verge, 
And down he went. They say they heard him cry. 

s ' Then he rose up and took the other one, 

And all our men reached out their hungry arms, 

And cried out, ' Throw her, throw her ! ' and he did : 

He threw her right against the parson's breast, 

And all at once a sea broke over them, 

And they that saw it from the shore have said 

It struck the wreck, and piecemeal scattered it, 



152 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

Just as a woman might the lump of salt 
That 'twixt her hands into the kneading-pan 
She breaks and crumbles on her rising bread. 

k - We hauled our men in : two of them were dead — 
The sea had beaten them, their heads hung down ; 
Our parson's arms were empty, for the wave 
Had torn away the pretty, pretty lamb ; 
We often see him stand beside her grave : 
But 'twas no fault of his, no fault of his. 

" I ask your pardon, Sirs ; I prate and prate, 

And never have I said what brought me here. 

Sirs, if you want a boat to-morrow morn, 

I'm bold to say there's ne'er a boat like mine." 

" Ay, that was what we wanted," we replied ; 

" A boat, his boat ; " and off he went, well pleased. 

We, too, rose up (the crimson in the sky 
Flushing our faces), and went sauntering on, 
And thought to reach our lodging, by the cliff. 
And up and down among the heather beds, 
And up and down between the sheaves, we sped, 
Doubling and winding ; for a long ravine 
Ran up into the land and cut us off, 
Pushing out slipper}' ledges for the birds, 
And rent with many a crevice, where the wind 
Had laid up drifts of empty egg-shells, swept 
From the bare berths of gulls and guillemots. 

So as it chanced we lighted on a path 
That led into a nutwood , and our talk 
Was louder than beseemed, if we had known, 
With argument and laughter; for the path, 
As we sped onward, took a sudden turn 
Abrupt, and we came out on churchyard grass, 
And close upon a porch, and face to face 
Within those within, and with the thirty graves. 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 153 



We heard the voice of one who preached within, 
And stopped. "Come on," my brother whispered 

me ; 
" It were more decent that we enter now ; 
Come on ! we'll hear this rare old demigod : 
I like strong men and large ; I like gray heads, 
And grand gruff voices, hoarse though this may be 
With shouting in the storm." 

It was not hoarse, 
The voice that preached to those few fishermen, 
And women, nursing mothers with the babes 
Unshed on their breasts ; and vet it held them nut: 
Their drowsy eyes were drawn to look at us, 
Till, having leaned our rods against the wall, 
And left the dogs at watch, we entered, sat, 
And were apprised that, though he saw us not, 
The parson knew that he had lost the eyes 
And ears of those before him, for he made 
A pause — a long dead pause — and dropped his arms, 
And stood awaiting, till I felt the red 
Mount to my brow. 

And a soft fluttering stir 
Passed over all, and every mother hushed 
The babe beneath her shawl, and he turned round 
And met our eyes, unused to diffidence, 
But diffident of his ; then with a sigh 
Fronted the folk, lifted his grand gray head, 
And said, as one that pondered now the words 
He had been preaching on with new surprise, 
And found fresh marvel in their sound, ; * Behold ! 
Behold ! " saith He, " I stand at the door and knock." 

Then said the parson : " What ! and shall He wait, 
And must He wait, not only till we say, 
' Good Lord, the house is clean, the hearth is swept, 
The children sleep, the mackerel-boats are in, 
And all the nets are mended S therefore I 



154 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON, 

Will slowly to the door and open it ; ' 

But must He also wait where still, behold ! 

He stands and knocks, while we do say, ' Good Lord, 

The gentlefolk are come to worship here, 

And I will up and open to Thee soon ; 

But first I pray a little longer wait, 

For I am taken up with them ; my eyes 

Must needs regard the fashion of their clothes, 

And count the gains I think to make by them ; 

Forsooth, they are of much account, good Lord ! 

Therefore have patience with me — wait, dear Lord ! 

Or come again ' ? 

"What ! must He wait for this — 
For this? Ay, He doth wait for this, and still, 
Waiting for this, He, patient, raileth not ; 
Waiting for this, e'en this He saith, ' Behold ! 
I stand at the door and knock.' 

" O patient hand 
Knocking and waiting — knocking in the night 
When work is done ! I charge you by the sea 
Whereby you fill your children's mouths, and by 
The might of Him that made it— fishermen ! 
I charge you, mothers ! by the mother's milk 
He drew, and by His Father, God over all, 
Blessed forever, that ye answer Him ! 
Open the door with shame, if ye have sinned ; 
If ye be sorry, open it with sighs. 
Albeit the place be bare for poverty, 
And comfortless for lack of plenishing, 
Be not abashed for that, but open it, 
And take Him in that comes to wy with Ihee; 

I Behold ! ' He saith, ' 1 stand at the door and knock.' 

II Now, hear me : there be troubles in this world 
That no man can escape, and there is one 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 155 

That lietli hard and heavy on nry soul, 
Concerning that which is to come : — 

I say 
As a man that knows what earthly trouble means, 
I will not bear this one — I cannot bear 
This one — I cannot bear the weight of you — 
You — every one of you, body and soul ; 
You, with the care you suffer, and the loss 
That you sustain ; you, with the growing up 
To peril, maybe with the growing old 
To want, unless before I stand with you 
At the great white throne, I may be free of all, 
And utter to the full what shall discharge 
Mine obligation : nay, I will not wait 
A day, for every time the black clouds rise, 
And the gale freshens, still I search my soul 
To find if there be aught that can persuade 
To o-ood, or aught forsooth that can beguile 
Frgm evil, that I (miserable man ! 
If that be so) have left unsaid, undone. 

" So that when any risen from sunken wrecks, 

Or rolled in by the billows to the edge 

Of the everlasting strand, what time the sea 

Gives up her dead, shall meet me, they may say 

Never, ' Old man, you told us not of this ; 

You left us fisher lads that had to toil 

Ever in danger of the secret stab 

Of rocks, far deadlier than the dagger ; winds 

Of breath more murderous than the cannon's ; waves 

Mighty to rock us to our death ; and gulfs. 

Ready beneath to suck and swallow us in : 

This crime be on your head ; and as for us — 

What shall we do?' but rather — nay, not so, 

I will not think it ; 1 will leave the dead, 

Appealing but to life : I am afraid 

Of you, but not so much if you have sinned 



156 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

As for the doubt if sin shall be forgiven. 

The day was, I have been afraid of pride — 

Hard man's hard pride ; but now I am afraid 

Of man's humility. I counsel you, 

By the great God's great humbleness, and by 

His pity, be not humble over-much. 

See ! I will show at whose unopened doors 

He stands and knocks, that you may never say, 

' I am too mean, too ignorant, too lost ; 

He knocks at other doors, but not at mine.' 

" See here ! it is the night ! it is the night ! 
And snow lies thickly, white untrodden snow, 
And the wan moon upon a casement shines — ■ 
A casement crusted o'er with frosty leaves, 
That makes her ray less bright along the floor. 
A woman sits, with hands upon her knees, 
Poor tired soul ! and she has naught to do, 
For there is neither fire nor candle light : 
The driftwood ash lies cold upon her hearth ; • 
The rushlight flickered down an hour ago ; 
Her children wail a little in their sleep 
For cold and hunger, and, as if that sound 
Was not enough, another comes to her, 
Over God's undefiled snow — a song — 
Nay, never hang your heads — I say, a song. 

Cw And doth she curse the alehouse, and the sot-? 

That drink the night out and their earning there, 
jj And drink their manly strength and courage down ? 
* And drink away the little children's bread, 
« And starve her, starving by the self -same act 

Her tender suckling, that with piteous eyes 
t Looks in her face, till scarcely she has heart 

To work, and earn the scanty bit and drop 

That feed the others ? 

" Does she curse the song? 

I think not, fishermen i 1 have not heard 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 157 

Such women curse. God's curse is enough. 
To-morrow she will say a bitter thing, 
Pullmg her sleeve down lest the bruises show — 
A bitter thing, but meant for an excuse — 
k My master is not worse than many men : ' 
But now, ay, now she sitteth dumb and still ; 
No food, no comfort, cold and poverty 
Bearing her down. 

"My heart is sore for her ; 
How long, how long? When troubles come of God, 
When men are frozen out of work, when wives 
Are sick, when working fathers fail and die, 
When boats go down at sea — then naught behooves 
Like patience ; but for troubles wrought of men 
Patience is hard — I tell you it is hard. 

" O thou poor soul ! it is the- night — the night ; 

Against thy door drifts up the silent snow, 

Blocking thy threshold : ' Fall,' thou sayest, ' fall, fall 

Cold snow, and lie and be trod underfoot. 

Arn not I fallen? wake up and pipe, O wind, 

Dull wind, and beat and bluster at my door : 

Merciful wind, sing me a hoarse rough song, 

For there is other music made to-night 

That I would fain not hear. Wake, thou still sea* 

Heavily plunge. Shoot on, white waterfall. 

O, I could long like thy cold icicles 

Freeze, freeze, and hang upon the frosty clift 

And not complain, so I might melt at last 

In the warm summer sun, as thou wilt do ! 

" ' But woe is me ! I think there is no sun ; 
My sun is sunken, and the night grows dark: 
None care for me. The children cry for bread, 
And J have none, and naught can comfort me ; 
Even if the heavens were free to such as I, 
It were not much, for death is long to wait, 
And heaven is far to go ! ' 



i 5 8 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



" And speak'st thou thus, 
Despairing of the sun that sets to thee, 
And of the earthly love that wanes to thee, 
And of the heaven that lieth far from thee? 
Peace, peace, fond fool ! One draweth near thy door 
Whose footsteps leave no print across the snow ; 
Thy sun has risen with comfort in his face, 
The smile of heaven, to warm thy frozen heart, 
And bless with saintly hand. What! is it long 
To wait, and far to go? Thou shalt not go ; 
Behold, across the snow to thee He comes, 
Thy heaven descends ; and is it long to wait? 
Thou shalt not wait : ' This night, this night,' He saith, 
4 1 stand at the door and knock.' 

'* It is enough — can such an one be here — 
Yea, here? O God forgive you, fishermen ! 
One ! is there only one? But do thou know, 

woman pale for want, if thou art here, 

That on thy lot much thought is spent in heaven; 
And, coveting the heart a hard man broke, 
One standeth patient, watching in the night, 
And waiting in the daytime. 

" What shall be 
If thou wilt answer? He will smile on thee ; 
One smile of His shall be enough to heal 
The wound of man's neglect ; and He will sigh, 
Pitying the trouble which that sigh shall cure ; 
And He will speak — speak in the desolate night, 
In the dark night : ' For me a thorny crown 
Men wove, and nails were driven in my hands 
And feet: there was an earthquake, and I died; 

1 died, and am alive for evermore. 

•• • I died for thee ; for thee I am alive, 
And my humanity doth mourn for thee, 
For thou art mine ; and all thv little ones, 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON". 159 

They, too, are mine, are mine. Behold, the house 
Is dark, but there is brightness where the sons 
Of God are singing; and, behold, the heart 
Is troubled : vet the nations walk in white : 
They have forgotten how to weep ; and thou 
Shalt also come, and I will foster thee 
And satisfy thy soul ; and thou shalt warm 
Thy trembling life beneath the smile of God. 
A little while — it is a little while — 
A little while, and I will comfort thee ; 
I go away, but I will come again.' 

" But hear me yet. There was a poor old man 

Who sat and listened to the raging sea, 

And heard it thunder, lunging at the cliffs 

As like to tear them down. He lay at night ; 

And ' Lord have mercy on the lads,' said he, 

1 That sailed at noon, though they be none of mine ! 

For when the gale gets up, and when the wind 

Flings at the window, when it beats the roof, 

And lulls, and stops, and rouses up again, 

And cuts the crest clean off the plunging wave, 

And scatters it like feathers up the field, 

Why, then I think of my two lads : my lads 

That would have worked and never let me want, 

And never let me take the parish pay. 

No, none of mine ; my lads were drowned at sea — 

My two — before the most of these were born. 

I know how sharp that cuts, since my poor wife 

Walked up and down, and still walked up and down, 

And I walked after, and one could not hear 

A word the other said, for wind and sea 

That raged and beat and thundered in the night — 

The awfullest, the longest, lightest night 

That ever parents had to spend — a moon 

That shone like daylight on the breaking wave. 

Ah me ! and other men have lost their lads, 



i6o BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

And other women wiped their poor dead mouths, 
And got them home and dried them in the house, 
And seen the driftwood lie. along the coast, 
That was a tidy boat but one day back, 
And seen next tide the neighbors gather it 
To lay it on their fires. 

Ay, I was strong 
And able-bodied — loved my work ; — but now 
I am a useless hull : 'tis time I sank ; 
I am in all men's way ; I troubled them ; 
I am a trouble to myself : but yet 
I feel for mariners of stormy nights, 
And feel for wives that watch ashore. Ay, ay ! 
If I had learning I would pray the Lord, 
To bring them in : but I'm no scholar, no ; 
Book-learning is a world too hard for me : 
But I make bold to say, O Lord, good Lord, 
I am a broken-down poor man, a fool 
To speak to Thee : but in the Book 'tis writ, 
As I hear say from others that can read, 
How, when Thou earnest, Thou didst love the sea, 
And live with fisherfolk, whereby 'tis sure 
Thou knowest all the peril they go through, 
And all their trouble. 

As for me, good Lord, 
I have no boat ; I am too old, too old — 
My lads are drowned ; I buried my poor wife ; 
My little lasses died so Ion a; qo'o 
That mostly I forget what they were like. 
Thou knowest, Lord ; they were such little ones 
I know they went to thee, but I forget 
Their faces, though I missed them sore. 

O Lord, 
I was a strong man ; I linve drawn good food 
And made good money out of Thy great sea : 
But yet I cried for them at nights ; and now, 
Although I be so old, I miss mv lads, 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 161 

And there be many folk this stormy night 
Heavy with fear for theirs. Merciful Lord, 
Comfort them ; save their honest boys, their pride, 
And let them hear next ebb the blessedest, 
Best sound — the boat keels grating on the sand. 

" ' I cannot pra} T with finer words : I know 

Nothing ; I have no learning, cannot learn — 

Too old, too old. They say I want for naught, 

I have the parish pay ; but I am dull 

Of hearing, and the fire scarce warms me through. 

God save me — I have been a sinful man — 

And save the lives of them that still can work, 

For they are good to me ; ay, good to me. 

But, Lord, lama trouble ! and I sit, 

And I am lonesome, and the nights are few 

That any think to come and draw a chair, 

And sit in my poor place and talk awhile. 

Why should they come, forsooth? Only the wind 

Knocks at my door, O long and loud it knocks, 

The only thing God made that has a mind 

To enter in.' 

" Yea, thus the old man spake ; 
These were the last words of his aged mouth — 
But One did knock. One came to sup with him s 
That humble, weak old man ; knocked at his door 
In the rough pauses of the laboring wind. 
I tell you that One knocked while it was dark, 
Save where their foaming passion had made white 
Those livid seething billows. What He said 
In that poor place where He did talk awhile 
I cannot tell ; but this I am assured, 
That when the neighbors came the morrow morn, 
What time the wind had bated, and the sun 
Shone on the old man's floor, they saw the smile 
He passed away in, and they said, ' He looks 
As he had woke and seen the face of Christ, 



i62 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

And with that rapturous smile held out his arms 
To come to II im ! ' 

" Cum such an one be here, 
So old, so weak, so ignorant, so frail? 
The Lord be good to thee, thou poor old man ; 
It would be hard with thee if heaven were shut 
To such as have not learning ! Nay, nay, nay, 
lie condescends to them of low estate : 
To such as are despised He cometh down, 
Stands at the door and knocks. 

" Yet bear with me. 
I have a message ; I have more to say. 
Shall sorrow win His pity, and not sin — 
That burden ten times heavier to be borne? 
What think 3 T ou ? Shall the virtuous have His care 
Alone? O virtuous women, think not scorn, 
For you may lift your faces everywhere ; 
And now that it grows dusk, and I can see 
None though they front me straight, I fain would tell 
A certain thing to you. I say to you; 
And if it doth concern yon, as methinks 
It doth, then surely it concerneth all. 
I say that there was once — I say not here — 
I say that there was once a castaway, 
And she was weeping, weeping bitterly ; 
Kneeling, and crying with a heart-sick cry 
That choked itself in sobs — i O my good name ! 
O my good name ! ' And none did hear her cry ! 
Nay ; and it lightened, and the storm-bolts fell, 
And the rain splashed upon the roof, and still 
She, storm-tost as the storming elements — 
She cried with an exceeding bitter cry, 
4 O my good name ! ' And then the thunder-cloud 
Stooped low and burst in darkness overhead, 
And rolled, and rocked her on her knees, and shook 
The frail foundations of her dwelling-place. 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 163 



Bat she — it' 11113* neighbors had come in 
(None did) : if any neighbors had come in, 
They might have seen her crying on her knees, 
And sobbing, ' Lost, lost, lost ! ' beating her breast — 
Her breast forever pricked with cruel thorns, 
The wounds whereof could neither balm assuage 
Nor any patience heal — beating her brow, 
Whbli ached, it had been bent so long to hide 
From level eyes, whose meaning was contempt. 

-- O ye good women, it is hard to leave 
The paths of virtue, and return again. 
What if this sinner wept, and none of you 
Comforted her? And what if she did strive 
To mend, and none of you believed her strife, 
Nor looked upon her? Mark, 1 do not say, 
Though it was hard, you therefore were to blame ; 
That she had aught against you, though your feet 
Never drew near her door. But I beseech 
Your patience. Once in old Jerusalem 
A woman kneeled at consecrated feet, 
Kissed them, and washed them with her tears. 

What then? 
I think that yet our Lord is pitiful : 
I think I see the castaway e'en now ! 
And she is not alone ; the heavy rain 
Splashes without, and sullen thunder rolls, 
But she is lying at the sacred feet 
Of One transfigured. 

" And her tears flow down, 
Down to her lips, — her lips that kiss the print 
Of nails; and love is like to break her heart! 
Love and repentance — for it still doth work 
Sore in her soul to think, to think that she, 
Even she, did pierce the sacred, sacred feet, 
And bruise the thorn-crowned head. 



i04 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON*. 

" O Lord, out Lord, 
How great is Thy compassion ! Come, good Lord, 
For we will open. Come this night, good Lord ; 
bfcand at the door and knock. 

' k And is this all? — 
Trouble, old age and simpleness, and sin — 
This all? It might be all some other night ; 
But this night, if a voice said, ; Give account 
Whom hast thou with thee?' then must I reply, 
' Young manhood have I, beautiful youth and strength 
Rich with all treasure drawn up from the crypt 
Where lies the learning of the ancient world — 
Brave with all thoughts that poets fling upon 
The strand of life, as driftweed after storms : 
Doubtless familiar with Thy mountain heads, 
And the dread purity of Alpine snows, 
Doubtless familiar with Thy works concealed 
For ages from mankind — outlying worlds, 
And many mooned spheres — and Thy great store 
Of stars, more thick than mealy dust which here 
Powders the pale leaves of auriculas. 

" ' This do I know, but, Lord, I know not more. 

" ' Not more concerning them — concerning Thee, 

I know Thy bounty ; where Thou givest much 

Standing without, if any call Thee in 

Thou givest more.' Speak, then, O rich and strong : 

Open, O happy young, ere yet the hand 

Of Him that knocks, wearied at last, forbear; 

The patient foot its thankless quest refrain, 

The wounded heart for evermore withdraw." 

I have heard many speak, but this one man — 
So anxious not to go to heaven alone — 
This one man I remember, and his look, 
Till twilight overshadowed him. He ceased, 



A WEDDING SONG. 165 

And out in darkness with the fisher folk 

We passed and stumbled over mounds of moss, 

And heard, but did not see, the passing beck. 

Ah, graceless heart, would that it could regain 

From the dim storehouse of sensations past 

The impress full of tender awe, that night, 

Which fell on me ! It was as if the Christ 

Had been drawn down from heaven to track us home 

And an t y of the footsteps following us 

Might have been His. 



A WEDDING SONG. 

Come up the broad river, the Thames, my Dane, 

My Dane with the beautiful eyes ! 
Thousands and thousands await thee full fain, 

And talk of the wind and the skies. 
Fear not from folk and from country to part, 

O, I swear it is wisely done ; 
For (I said) I will bear me by thee, sweetheart. 

As becometh my father's son. 

Great London was shouting as I went down, 

" She is worthy," I said, "of this ; 
What shall I give who have promised a crown? 

O, first I will give her a kiss." 
So I kissed her and brought her, my Dane, my Dane, 

Through the waving wonderful crowd : 
Thousands and thousands, the}' shouted amain, 

Like mighty thunders and loud. 

And they said, "He is young, the lad we love, 

The heir of the Isles is young : 
How we deem of his mother, and one gone above> 

Can neither be said nor sung. 



1 06 THE TOUR BRIDGES. 



He brings us a pledge — he will do his part 
With the best of his race and name ; " — 

And I will, for I look to live, sweetheart, 
As may suit with 1113' mother's fame. 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

I love this gray old church, the low, loug nave, 
The ivied chancel and the slender spire ; 

No less its shadow on each heaving grave. 
With growing osier bound, or living briar ; 

I love those yew-tree trunks, where stand arrayed 

80 many deep-cut names of youth and maid. 

A simple custom this — T love it well — 
A carved betrothal and a pledge of truth ; 

How many an eve, their linked names to spell, 
Beneath the yew-trees sat our village youth ! 

When work was over, and the new-cut hay 

Sent wafts of balm from meadows where it lay. 

Ah ! man}' an eve, while I was yet n boy, 
Some village hind has beckoned me aside, 

And sought mine aid, with shy and awkward joy, 
To carve the letters of his rustic bride, 

And make them clear to read as graven stone, 

Deep in the yew-tree's trunk beside his own. 

For none could carve like me, and here they stand. 
Fathers and mothers of this present race; 

And underscored by some less practised hand, 
That, fain the story of its line would trace, 

With children's names, and number, and the day 

When any called to God have passed away. 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 1O7 

I look upon them, and I turn aside, 

As oft when carving .them I did erewhile ; 

And there I see those wooden bridges wide 
That cross the marshy hollow ; there the stile 

In reeds imbedded, and the swelling down, 

And the white road toward the distant town. 

But those old bridges claim another look. 

Our brattling river tumbles through the one ; 
The second spans a shallow, weedy brook , 

Beneath the others, and beneath the sun, 
Lie two long stilly pools, and on their breasts 
Picture their wooden piles, encased in swallows' 
nests. 

And round about them grows a fringe of reeds, 
And then a floating crown of lily-flowers, 

And yet within small silver-budded weeds ; 
But each clear centre evermore embowers 

A deeper sky, where, stooping, you may see 

The little minnows darting restlessly. 

My heart is bitter, lilies, at your sweet ; 

Why did the dewdrop fringe your chalices? 
Why in your beauty are you thus complete, 

You silver ships — you floating palaces ? 
O ! if need be, you must allure man's eye, 
Yet wherefore blossom here ? O why ? O why ? 

O ! O ! the world is wide, you lily-flowers, 
It hath warm forests, cleft by stilly pools, 

Where every night bathe crowds of stnrs ; and 
bowers 
Of spicery hang over. Sweet air cools 

And shakes the lilies among those stars that lie : 

Why are not ye content to reign there ? Why ? 



1 68 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

That chain of bridges, it were hard to tell 
How it is linked with all my early joy. 

There was a little foot that I loved well, 
It danced across them when I was a boy ; 

There was a careless voice that used to sing ; 

There was a child, a sweet and happy thing. 

Oft through that matted wood of oak and birch 
She came from yonder house upon the hill ; 

She crossed the wooden bridges to the church, 
And watched, with village girls, my boasted skill j 

But loved to watch the floating lilies best, 

Or linger, peering in a swallow's nest ; 

Linger and linger, with her wistful eyes 
Drawn to the lily-buds that lay so white 

And soft on crimson water ; for the skies 

Would crimson, and the little cloudlets bright 

Would all be flung among the flowers sheer down., 

To flush the spaces of their clustering crown. 

Till the green rushes — O, so glossy green — 
The rushes, they would whisper, rustle, shake ; 

And forth on floating gauze, no jewelled queen 
So rich, the green-eyed dragon-flies would break, 

And hover on the flowers — aerial things, 

With little rainbows flickering on their wings. 

Ah ! my heart dear ! the polished pools He still, 
Like lanes of water reddened by the west, 

Till, swooping down from yon o'erhanging hill, 
The bold marsh harrier wets her tawny breast ; 

We scared her oft in childhood from her prey, 

And the old eager thoughts rise fresh as yesterda}'. 

To yonder copse by moonlight T did go, 

In luxury of mischief, half afraid, 
To steal the great owl's brood, her downy snow, 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 169 

Her screaming imps to seize, the while she preyed 
With yellow, cruel eyes, whose radiant glare, 
Fell with their mother rage, I might not dare. 

Panting I lay till her great fanning wings [nigh, 
Troubled the dreams of rock-doves, slumbering 

And she and her fierce mate, like evil things, 

Skimmed the dusk fields ; then rising, with a cry 

Of fear, joy, triumph, darted on my prey, 

And tore it from the nest and lied away. 

But afterward, belated in the wood, 

I saw her moping on the rifled tree, 
And my heart smote me for her, while I stood 

Awakened from my careless reverie ; 
So white she looked, with moonlight round her shed, 
So motherlike she drooped and hung her head. 

O that mine eyes would cheat me ! I behold 
The god wits running by the water edge, 

The mossy bridges mirrored as of old ; 

The little curlews creeping from the sedge, 

But not the little foot so gavly light ; 

O that mine eyes would cheat me, that 1 might! — 

Would cheat me ! I behold the gable-ends — 
Those purple pigeons clustering on the cote ; 

The lane with maples overhung, that bends 
Toward her dwelling ; the dry grass} 7 moat, 

Thick mullions, diamond-latticed, mossed and gray, 

And walls banked up with laurel and with bay. 

And up behind them yellow fields of corn, 
And still ascending countless firry spires, 

Dry slopes of hills uncultured, bare, forlorn, 

And green in rocky clefts with whins and briars ; 

Then rich cloud masses dyed the violet's hue, 

With orange sunbeams dropping swiftly through. 



170 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

Ay, I behold all this lull easily ; 

My soul is jealous of my happier eyes, 
And manhood envies youth. Ah, strange to see, 

By looking merely, orange-flooded skies ; 
Nay, any dewdrop that may near me shine : 
But never more the face of Eglantine ! 

She was my one companion, being herself 
The jewel and adornment of my days, 

Mr life's completeness. O, a smiling elf, 
That I do but disparage with my praise — 

My playmate; and I loved her dearly and long. 

And she loved me, as the tender love the strong. 

Ay, but she grew, till on a time there came 
A sudden restless yearning to my heart ; 

And as we went a-nesting, all for shame 

And shyness, I did hold my peace, and start ; 

Content departed, comfort shut me out, 

And there was nothing left to talk about. 

She had but sixteen years, and as for me, 
Four added made my life. This pretty bird, 

This fairy bird that I had cherished — sue, 
Content, had sung, while I, contented, heard. 

The song had ceased ; the bird, with nature's art, 

Had brought a thorn and set it in my heart. 

The restless birth of love my soul opprest ; 

I longed and wrestled for a tranquil day, 
And warred with that disquiet in my breast 

As one who knows there is a better way ; 
But, turned against myself, I still in vain 
Looked for the ancient calm to come again. 

My tired soul could to itself confess 

That she deserved a wiser love than mine; 
To love more truly were to love her less, 



THE HOUR BRIDGES. 171 

Aud for this truth I still awoke to pine : 
I had a dim belief that it would be 
A better thing for her, a blessed thing for me. 

Good hast Thou made them — comforters right sweet ; 

Good hast Thou made the world, to mankind lent ; 
Good are Thy dropping clouds that feed the wheat ; 

Good are Thy stars above the firmament. 
Take to Thee, take, Thy worship, Thy renown ; 
The good which Thou hast made doth wear Thy crown. 

For, O my God, Thy creatures are so frail, 

Thy bountiful creation is so fair, 
That, drawn before us like the temple veil, 

It hides the Holy Place from thought and care, 
Giving man's eyes instead its sweeping fold, 
Rich as with cherub wings and apples wrought of 
gold, 

Purple and blue and scarlet — shimmering bells 

And rare pomegranates on its broidered rim, 
Glorious with chain and fret work that the swell 

Of incense shakes to music dreamy and dim, 

Till on a day comes loss, that God makes gain, 

And death and darknesss rend the veil in twain. 

******* 

Ah, sweetest ! my beloved ! each outward thing 

Recalls my youth, and is instinct with thee ; 
Brown wood-owls in the dusk, with noiseless wing, 

Float from yon hanger to their haunted tree, 
And hoot full softly. Listening, I regain 
A flashing thought of thee with their remembered 
strain. 

I will not pine — it is the careless brook, 

These amber sunbeams slanting down the vale ; 
It is the long tree-shadows, with their look 



172 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

Of natural peace, that make my heart to fail : 
The peace of nature — No, I will not pine — 
But the contrast 'twixt her face and mine ! 

And still I changed — I was a boy no more ; 

My heart was large enough to hold my kind, 
And all the world. As hath been oft before 

With youth, I sought, but I could never find 
Work hard enough to quiet my self-strife, 
And use the strength of action-craving life. 

She, too, was changed : her bountiful sweet eyes 
Looked out full lovingly on all the world. 

C tender as the deeps in yonder skies 

Their beaming ! but her rosebud lips were curled 

With the soft dimple of a musing smile, 

Which kept my gaze, but held me mute the while. 

A cast of bees, a slowly moving wain, 

The scent of bean-flowers wafted up a dell, 
Blue pigeons wheeling over fields of grain, 

Or bleat of folded lamb, would please her well ; 
Or cooing of the early coted dove ; — 
She, sauntering, mused of these ; I, following, mused 

of love. 
With her two lips, that one the other pressed 

So poutingly with such a tranquil air, 
With her two eyes, that on my own would rest 

So dream-like, she denied my silent prayer, 
Fronted unuttered words, and said them nay. 
And smiled down love till it had naught to say. 

The words that through mine eyes would clearly shine 
Hovered and hovered on my lips in vain ; 

If after pause 1 said but " Eglantine," 
She raised to me her quiet eyelids twain, 

And looked me this reply — look calm, yet bland — 

" I shall not know, I will not understand." 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 173 



Yet she did know my story — knew my life 

Was wrought to hers with bindings many and 
strong ; 

That I, like Israel, served for a wife, 

And for the love I bear her thought not long, 

But only a few days, full quickly told, 

My seven years' service strict as his of old. 

I must be brief : the twilight shadows grow, 
And steal the rose-bloom genial summer sheds. 

And scented wafts of wind that come and go 
Have lifted dew from honeyed clover-heads ; 

The seven stars shine out above the mill, 

The dark delightsome woods lie veiled and Still. 

Hush ! hush ! the nightingale begins to sing, 
And stops, as ill contented with her note ; 

Then breaks from out the bush with hurried wing., 
Restless and passionate. She tunes her throat, 

Laments a while in wavering trills, and then 

Floods with a stream of sweetness all the glen. 

The seven stars upon the nearest pool 

Lie trembling down betwixt the lily leaves, 

And move like glowworms ; wafting breezes cool 
Come down along the water, and it heaves 

And bubbles in the sedge ; while deep and wide 

The dim night settles on the country side. 

I know this scene by heart. O ! once before 
I saw the seven stars float to and fro, 

And stayed my hurried footsteps by the shore 
To mark the starry picture spread below : 

Its silence made the tumult in my breast 

More audible ; its peace revealed my own unrest. 

I paused, then hurried on ; my heart beat quick ; 
I crossed the bridges, reached the steep ascent,. 
And climbed through matted fern and hazels thick : 



174 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



Then darkling through the close green maples went, 
And saw — there felt love's keenest [tangs begin — 
An oriel window Lighted from within : 

I saw — and felt that they were scared}' cares 
Which I had known before. I drew more near, 

And O ! methought how sore it frets and wears 
The soul to part with that it holds so dear : 

'Tis hard two woven tendrils to untwine, 

And I was come to part with Eglantine* 

For life was bitter through those words repressed, 
And youth was burdened with unspoken vows ; 

Love unrequited brooded in my breast, 

And shrank, at glance, from the belovexl brows : 

And three long months, heart-sick, my foot with- 
drawn, 

I had not sought her side by rivulet, copse, or lawn — • 

Not sought her side, yet busy thought no less 
Still followed in her wake, though far behind ; 

And I, being parted from her loveliness, 
Looked at the picture of her in my mind : 

I lived alone, I walked with soul opprest, 

And ever sighed for her, and sighed for rest. 

Then I had risen to struggle with my heart, 

And said : " O heart ! the world is fresh and fair, 

And I am young ; but this thy restless smart 
Changes to bitterness the morning air: 

I will, I must, these weary fetters break — 

I will be free, if only for her sake. 

" O let me trouble her no more with sighs ! 

Heart-healing comes by distance, and with time: 
Then let me wander, and enrich mine eyes 

With the green forests of a softer clime, 
Or list by night at sea the wind's low stave 
And long monotonous rockings of the wave. 



THE EOUR BRIDGES. 175 

" Tlirough open solitudes, unbounded meads, 
Where, wading on bceast-high in yellow bloom, 

Untamed of man, the shy white llama feeds — 
There would I journey and forget my doom ; 

far, far as sunrise I would see 
The level prairie stretch away from me ! 

" Or would I sail upon the tropic seas, 

Where fathom long the blood-red dulses grow, 

Droop from the rock and waver in the breeze, 
Lashing the tide to foam ; while calm below 

The muddy mandrakes throng these waters warm, 

And purple, gold, and green, the living blossoms 
swarm." 

So of my father I did win consent, 

With importunities repeated long, 
To make that duty which had been my bent, 

To dig with strangers alien tombs among, 
And bound to them through desert leagues to pace, 
Or track up rivers to their starting-place. 

For this I had done battle and had won, 
But not alone to tread Arabian sands, 

Measure the shadows of a southern sun, 
Or dig out gods in the old Egyptian lands ; 

But for the dream wherewith I thought to cope — 

The grief of love ununited with love's hope. 

And now I would set reason in array, 

Methought, and fight for freedom manfully, 

Till by long absence there would come a day 
When this my love would not be pain to me ; 

But if I knew my rosebud fair and blest 

1 should not pine to wear it on nry breast. 

The days fled on ; another week should fling 
A foreign shadow on my lengthening way ; 



176 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

Another week, yet nearness did not bring 

A braver heart that hard farewell to say. 
I let the last day wane, the dusk begin, 
Ere 1 had sought that window lighted from within. 

Sinking and sinking, my heart! my heart! 

Will absence heal thee whom its shade doth rend? 
I reached the little gate, and soft within 

The oriel fell her shadow. She did lend 
Her loveliness to me, and let me share 
The listless sweetness of those features fair. 

Among thick laurels in the gathering gloom, 
Heavy for this our parting, I did stand ; 

Beside her mother in the lighted room, 

She sitting leaned her cheek upon her hand ; 

And as she read, her sweet voice, floating through 

The open casement, seemed to mourn me an adieu. 

Youth ! youth ! how buoyant are thy hopes ! they 
turn, 
Like marigolds, toward the sunny side. 
My hopes were buried in a funeral urn, 

And they sprang up like plants and spread them 
wide ; 
Though I had schooled and reasoned them away, 
They gathered smiling near and prayed a holiday. 

Ah, sweetest voice ! how pensive were its tones, 
And how regretful its unconscious pause ! 

" Is it for me her heart this sadness owns, 
And is our parting of to-night the cause? 

Ah, would it might be so ! " I thought, and stood 

Listening entranced among the underwood. 

I thought it would be something worth the pain 
Of parting, to look once in those deep eyes, 
And take from them an answering look a^ain. 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 177 



" When eastern palms," I thought, "about me rise, 
If I might curve our mimes upon the rind, 
Betrothed, I would not mourn, though leaving thee 
behind." 

I can be patient, faithful, and most fond 
To unacknowledged love ; I can be true 

To this sweet thraldom, this unequal bond, 
This yoke of mine that reaches not to you : 

0, how much more could costly parting buy — 

If not a pledge, one kiss, or, failing that, a sigh ! 

I listened, and she ceased to read ; she turned 
Her face toward the laurels where I stood : 

Her mother spoke — O wonder ! hardly learned ; 
She said, '"• There is a rustling in the wood ; 

Ah, child ! if one draw near to bid farewell, 

Let not thine eyes an unsought secret tell. 

" My daughter, there is nothing held so dear 

As love, if only it be hard to win. 
The roses that in yonder hedge appear 

Outdo our garden-buds which bloom within ; 
But since the hand may pluck them every day, 
Unmarked they bud, bloom, drop, and drift away. 

" My daughter, my beloved, be not you 

Like those same roses." bewildering word ! 
My heart stood still, a mist obscured my view : 

It cleared ; still silence. No denial stirred 
The lips beloved ; but straight, as one opprest, 
She, kneeling, dropped her face upon her mother's 

breast. 
This said, " My daughter, sorrow comes to all; 

Our life is checked with shadows manifold : 
But woman has this more — she may not call 

Her sorrow by its name. Yet love not told, 
And only born of absence and by thought, 
With thought and absence may return to nought." 



178 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

And m3 T beloved lifted up her face, 

And moved her lips as if about to speak; 

She dropped her lashes with a girlish grace, 
And the rich damask mantled in her cheek : 

I stood awaiting till she should deny 

Her love, or with sweet laughter put it by. 

But, closer nestling to her mother's heart, 

She, blushing, said no word to break m}? trance, 

For I was breathless ; and, with lips apart, 
Felt my breast pant and all my pulses dance, 

And strove to move, but could not for the weight 

Of unbelieving joy, so sudden and so great, 

Because she loved me. With a mighty sigh 
Breaking away, I left her on her knees, 

And blest the laurel bower, the darkened sky, 
The sultry night of August. Through the trees, 

Giddy with gladness, to Hie porch I went, 

And hardl}' found the way for joyful wonderment. 

Yet, when I entered, saw her mother sit 

With both hands cherishing the graceful head, 

Smoothing the clustered hair, and parting it 
From the fair brow ; she, rising, only said, 

In the accustomed tone, the accustomed word, 

The careless greeting that I always heard ; 

And she resumed her merry, mocking smile, 

Though tear-drops on the glistening lashes hung. 

O woman ! thou wert fashioned to beguile : 
So have all sages said, all poets sung. 

She spoke of favoring winds and waiting ships, 

With smiles of gratulation on her lips ! 

And then she looked and faltered : I had grown 

So suddenly in life and soul a man : 
She moved her lips, but could not find a tone 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 179 



To set her mocking music to ; began 
One struggle for dominion, raised her eyes, [prise. 
And straight withdrew them, bashful through sur- 

The color over cheek and bosom flushed ; 

I might have heard the beating of her heart, 
But that mine own beat louder ; when she blushed, 

The hand within mine own I felt to start, 
But would not change my pitiless decree 
To strive with her for might and mastery. 
She looked again, as one that, half afraid, 

Would fain be certain of a doubtful thing ; 
Or one beseeching, " Do not me upbraid ! " 

And then she trembled like the fluttering 
Of timid little birds, and silent stood, 
No smile wherewith to mock m}' hardihood. 

She turned, and to an open casement moved 
With girlish shyness, mute beneath my gaze, 

And I on downcast lashes unreproved 

Could look as long as pleased me ; while, the ra}-s 

Of moonlight round her, she her fair head bent, 

In modest silence to my words attent. 

How fast the giddy whirling moments flew ! 

The moon had set ; I heard the midnight chime : 
Hope is more brave than fear, and joy than dread, 

And I could wait unmoved the parting time. 
It came ; for, by a sudden impulse drawn, 
She, risen, stepped out upon the dusky lawn. 

A little waxen taper in her hand, 

Her feet upon the dry and dewless grass, 

She looked like one of the celestial band, 
Only that on her cheeks did dawn and pass 

Most human blushes ; while, the soft light thrown 

On vesture pure and white, she seemed yet fairer 
srown. 



i So THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

Her mother, looking out toward her, sighed, 
Then gave her band in token of farewell, 

And with her warning eyes, that seemed to chide, 
Scarce suffered that I sought her child to tell 

The story of my life, whose every line 

No other burden bore than — Eglantine. 

Black thunder-clouds were rising up behind, 
The waxen taper burned full steadily ; 

It seemed as if dark midnight had a mind 
To hear what lovers say, and her decree 

Had passed for silence, while she, dropped to ground 

With raiment floating wide, drank in the sound. 



■& 



happiness ! thou dost not leave a trace 
So well defined as sorrow. Amber light, 

Shed like a glory on her angel face, 

I can remember fully, and the sight 
Of her fair forehead and her shining eyes, 
And lips that smiled in sweet and girlish wise. 

1 can remember how the taper played 

Over her small hands and her vesture white ; 
How it struck up into the trees, and laid 

Upon their under leaves unwonted light ; 
And when she held it low, how far it spread 
O'er velvet pansies slumbering on their bed. 

I can remember that we spoke full low, 
That neither doubted of the other's truth ; 

And that with footsteps slower and more slow, 
Hands folded close for love, eyes wet for ruth 

Beneath the trees, by that clear taper's flame, 

We wandered till the gate of parting came. 

But I forget the parting words she said, 

So much they thrilled the all-attentive soul ; 
For one short moment human heart and head 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



May bear such bliss — its present is the whole : 
I had that present, till in whispers fell 
With parting- gesture her subdued farewell. 

u Farewell ! " she said, in act to turn away, 
But stood a moment still to dry her tears, 

And suffered my enfolding arm to stay 
The time of her departure. O ye years 

That intervene betwixt that day and this ! 

You all received your hue from that keen pain and 
bliss. 

O mingled pain and bliss ! O pain to break 
At once from happiness so lately found, 

And four long years to feel for her sweet sake 
The incompleteness of all sight and sound ! 

But bliss to cross once more the foaming brine — 

bliss to come again and make her mine ! 

1 cannot — O, I cannot more recall! 

But I will soothe my troubled thoughts to rest 
With musing over journeyings wide, and all 

Observance of this active-humored west, 
And swarming cities steeped in eastern day, 
With swarthy tribes in gold and striped array. 

I turn from these, and straight there will succeed 
(Shifting and changing at the restless will), 

Imbedded in some deep Circassian mead, 

White wagon-tilts, and flocks that eat their fill 

Unseen above, while comely shepherds pass, 

And scarcely show their heads above the grass. 

■ — The red Sahara in an angry glow, 

With amber fogs, across its hollows trailed 

Long strings of camels, gloomy-eyed and slow, 
And women on their necks, from gazers veiled, 

And sun-swart guides who toil across the sand 

To groves of date-trees on the watered land. 



1S2 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



Again — the brown sails of an Arab boat, 
Flapping by night upon a glassy sea, 

Whereon the moon and planets seem to float, 
More bright of hue than they were wont to be, 

While shooting-stars rain down with crackling 
sound, 

And, thick as swarming locusts, drop to ground. 

Or far into the heat among the sands 

The gembok nations, snuffing up the wind, 

Drawn by the scent of water — and the bands 
Of tawny-bearded lions pacing, blind 

With the sun-dazzle in their midst, opprest 

With prey, and spiritless for lack of rest ! 

What more? Old Lebanon, the frosty-browed, 
Setting his feet among oil-olive trees, 

Heaving his bare brown shoulder through a cloud ; 
And after, grassy Carmel, purple seas, 

Flattering his dreams and echoing in his rocks 

Soft as the bleating of his thousand flocks. 

Enough : how vain this thinking to beguile, 
With recollected scenes, an aching breast! 

Did not I, journeying, muse on her the while? 
Ah, yes ! for every landscape comes impressed — 

Ay, written on as by an iron pen — 

With the same thought I nursed about her then. 

Therefore let memory turn again to home ; 

Feel, as of old, the joy of drawing near ; 
Watch the green breakers and the wind-tossed foam, 

And see the land-fog break, dissolve, and clear; 
Then think a skylark's voice far sweeter sound 
Than ever thrilled but over English ground ; 

And walk, glad, even to tears, among the wheat, 
Not doubting this to be the first of lands ; 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 183 

And, while in foreign words this murmuring, meet 
Some little village school-girls (with their hands 
Full of forget-me-nots)', who, greeting me, 
T count their English talk delightsome melody ; 

And seat me on a bank, and draw them near, 
That I may feast myself with hearing it, 

Till shortly they forget their bashful fear, 

Push back their flaxen curls, and round me sit — ■ 

Tell me their names, their daily tasks, and show 

Where wildwood strawberries in the copses grow. 

So passed the day in this delightsome land : 

My heart was thankful for the English tongue — 

For English sky with feathery cloudlets spanned — 
For English hedge with glistening dewdrops hung, 

I journeyed, and at glowing eventide 

Stopped at a rustic inn by the wayside. 

That night I slumbered sweetly, being right glad 
To miss the flapping of the shrouds ; but lo ! 

A quiet dream of beings twain I had, 
Behind the curtain talking soft and low : 

Methought I did not heed their utterance fine, 

Till one of them said softly, " Eglantine." 

I started up awake, 'twas silence all : [clear ; 

My own fond heart had shaped that utterance 
And " Ah ! " methought, " how sweetly did it fall, 

Though but in dream, upon the listening ear ! 
How sweet from other lips the name well known — 
That name, so many a year heard only from mine 
own ! " 

I thought awhile, then slumber came to me, 
And tangled all my fancy in her maze, 

And I was drifting on a raft at sea, 

The near all ocean, and the far all haze ; 



1 84 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

Through the white polished water sharks did glide, 
And up in heaven I saw no stars to guide. 

" Have mercy, God ! " but lo ! my raft uprose ; 

Drip, drip, I heard the water splash from it ; 
My raft had wings, and as the petrel goes, 

It skimmed the sea, then brooding seemed to sit 
The milk-white mirror, till, with sudden spring, 
It Hew straight upward like a living thing. 

But strange ! — I went not also in that flight, 
For I was entering at a cavern's mouth ; 

Trees grew within, and screaming birds of night 
Sat on them, hiding from the torrid south. 

On, on I went, while gleaming in the dark 

Those trees with blanched leaves stood pale and stark. 

The trees had flower-buds, nourished in deep night. 

And suddenly, as I went farther in, 
They opened, and they shot out lambent light; 

Then all at ODCe arose a railing din 
That frighted me : Ci It is the ghosts," I said, 
" And they are railing for their darkness tied. 

" 1 hope they will not look me in the face ; 

It frighteth me to hear their laughter loud ; " 
I saw them troop before with jaunty pace, 

And one would shake off dust that soiled her 
shroud : 
But now, O joy unhoped ! to calm 1113' dread, 
Some moonlight filtered through a cleft o'erhead. 

I climbed the lofty trees — the blanched trees — 
The cleft was wide enough to let me through ; 

I clambered out and felt the balmy breeze, 

And stepped on churchyard grasses wet with dew. 

() happy chance ! O fortune to admire ! 

I stood beside my own loved village spire. 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 1S5 

And as I gazed upon the yew-tree's trunk, 
Lo, far-off music — music in the night! 

So sweet and tender as it swelled and sunk ; 
It charmed me till I wept with keen delight, 

And in my dream, methought as it drew near 

The very clouds in heaven stooped low to hear. 

Beat high, beat low, wild heart so deeply stirred, 
For high as heaven runs up the piercing strain ; 

The restless music fluttering like a bird 

Bemoaned herself, and dropped to earth again, 

Heaping up sweetness till I was afraid 

That I should die of grief when it did fade. 

And it did fade ; but while with eager ear 
I drank its last long echo dying away, 

I was aware of footsteps that drew near, 

And round the ivied chancel seemed to stray : 

O, soft above the hallowed place they trod — 

Soft as the fall of foot that is not shod ! 

I turned — 'twas even so — yes, Eglantine ! 

For at the first I had divined the same ; 
I saw the moon on her shirt eyelids shine, 

And said, " She is asleep : " still on she came ; 
Then, on her dimpled feet, I saw it gleam, 
And thought, " I know that this is but a dream." 

My darling ! O my darling ! not the less 
My dream went on because I knew it such ; 

She came towards me in her loveliness — 

A thing too pure, methought, for mortal touch; 

The rippling gold did on her bosom meet, 

The long white robe descended to her feet. 

The fringed lids dropped low, as sleep-oppressed ', 

Her dreamy smile was very fair to see, 
And her two hands were folded to her breast, 



1 86 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

With somewhat held between them needfully, 
O fust asleep ! and yet methonght she knew 
And felt my nearness those shut eyelids through. 

She sighed : my tears ran down for tenderness — 
" And have I drawn thee to me in my sleep? 

Is it for me thou wanderest shelterless, 
Wetting thy steps in dewy grasses deep? 

if this be ! " I said — " yet speak to me ; 

1 blame my very dream for cruelty." 

Then from her stainless bosom she did take 
Two beauteous lily flowers that lay therein, 

And with slow-moving lips a gesture make, 
As one that some forgotten words doth win : 

"They floated on the pool," methought she said. 

And water trickled from each lily's head. 

It dropped upon her feet — 1 saw it gleam 

Along the ripples of her yellow hair, 
And stood apart, for only in a dream 

She would have come, methought, to meet me 
there. 
She spoke again — " Ah fair ! ah fresh they shine ! 
And there are many left, and these are mine." 

I answered her with flattering accents meet — 
" Love, they are whitest lilies e'er were blown." 

"And sayest thou so?" she sighed in murmurs 
sweet : 
" I have naught else to snvc thee now, mine own ! 

For it is night. Then take them, love ! " said she : 

ki They have been costly flowers to thee — and me." 

While thus she said I took them from her hand, 
And, overcome with love and nearness, woke ; 

And overcome with ruth that she should stand 
Barefooted in the grass ; that, when she spoke, 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 1S7 

Her mystic words should take so sweet a tone 
And of all names her lips should choose "My own.' 5 

I rose, journeyed, neared 1113- home, and soon 
Beheld the spire peer out above the hill : 

It was a sunny harvest afternoon, 

When by the churchyard wicket, standing still, 

I cast my eager eyes abroad to know 

If change had touched the scenes of long ago. 

1 looked across the hollow ; sunbeams shone 
Upon the old house with the gable-ends : 

" Save that the laurel-trees are taller grown, 

No change," methought, "to its gray wall extends. 

What clear bright beams on yonder lattice shine ! 

There did I sometime talk with Eglantine." 

There standing with my very goal in sight, 
Over my haste did sudden quiet steal ; 

I thought to dally with my own delight, 

Nor rush on headlong to my garnered weal, 

But taste the sweetness of a short delay, 

And for a little moment hold the bliss at bay. 

The church was open ; it perchance might be 
That there to offer thanks I might essay, 

Or rather, as I think, that I might see 

The place where Eglantine was wont to pray. 

But so it was ; I crossed that portal wide, 

And felt my riot joy to calm subside. 

The low depending curtains, gently swayed, 
Cast over arch and roof a crimson glow ; 

But, ne'ertheless, all silence and all shade 
Jt seemed, save only for the rippling flow 

Of their long foldings, when the sunset air 

Sighed through the casements of the house of prayer 



1 88 A MOTHER SHOWING THE 

I found her place, the ancient oaken stall, 
Where in her childhood I had seen her sit, 

Most saint-like and most tranquil there of all, 
Folding her hands, as if a dreaming fit — 

A heavenly vision had before her straj'ed 

Of the Eternal Child in lowly manger laid. 

I saw her prayer-book laid upon the seat, 
And took it in my hand, and felt more near 

In fancy to her, finding it most sweet 

To think how very oft, low kneeling here, 

In her devout thoughts she had let me share, 

And set my graceless name in her pure prayer. 

My eyes were dazzled with delightful tears — 
In sooth they were the last I ever shed ; 

For with them fell the cherished dreams of years, 
I looked, and on the wall above my head, 

Over her seat, there was a tablet placed, 

With one word only on the marble traced. — 

Ah, well ! I would not overstate that woe, 
For I have had some blessings, little care ; 

But since the falling of that heavy blow, 
God's earth has never seemed to me so fair ; 

Nor any of His creatures so divine, 

Nor sleep so sweet : — the word was — Eglantine, 



MOTHER SHOWING THE PORTRAIT OF 
HER CHILD. 

(f. m. l.) 

Living Child or pictured cherub 
Ne'er o'ermatched its baby grace ; 

And the mother, moving nearer, 
Looked it calmly in the face ; 



PORTRAIT OF HER CHILD. 189 



Then with slight and quiet gesture, 

And with lips that scarcely smiled, 
Said, ;t A portrait of my daughter 

When she was a child." 
Easy thought was hers to fathom, 

Nothing hard her glance to read, 
For it seemed to say, " No praises 

For this little child I need : 
If you see, I see far better, 

And I will not fain to care 
For a stranger's prompt assurance 

That the face is fair." 

Softly clasped and half extended, 

She her dimpled hands doth lay : 
So they doubtless placed them, saying, 

u Little one. you must not play." 
And while yet his work was growing, 

This the painter's hand hath shown, 
That the little heart was making 

Pictures of its own. 

Is it warm in that green valley, 

Vale of childhood, where you dwell? 
Is it calm in that green valley, 

Round whose bournes such great hills swell? 
Are there giants in the valley — 

Giants leaving footprints yet? 
Are there angels in the valley? 

Tell me — I forget. 

Answer, answer, for the lilies, 

Little one, o'ertop you much. 
And the mealy gold within them 

You can scarcely reach to touch ; 
O how far their aspect differs, 

Looking up and looking down ! 



igo A MOTHER SHOWING THE 

You look up in that green valley — 
Valley of renown. 

Are there voices in the valley, 

Lying near the heavenly gate? 
When it opens, do the harp-strings, 

Touched within, reverberate ? 
When, like shooting-stars, the angels 

To your couch at nightfall go, 
Are their swift wings heard to rustle? 

Tell me ! for you know. 

Yes, you know ; and you are silent, 

Not a word shall asking win ; 
Little mouth more sweet than rosebud, 

Fast it locks the secret in. 
Not a glimpse upon your present 

You unfold to glad my view ; 
Ah, what secrets of your future 

I could tell to you ! 

Sunny present ! thus I read it, 

By remembrance of my past : — 
Its to-day and its to-morrow 

Are as lifetimes vague and vast ; 
And each face in that green valley 

Takes for you an aspect mild, 
And each voice grows soft in saying—* 

"Kiss me, little child!" 

As a boon the kiss is granted : 
Baby mouth, your touch is sweet, 

Takes the love without the trouble 
From those lips that with it meet; 

Gives the love, O pure ! O tender! 
Of the valley where it grows. 

But the baby heart receive th 

MOKE THAN IT BESTOWS. 



PORTRAIT OF HER CHILD. 191 



Comes the future to the present-— 

^ Ah ! " she saith, lt too blithe of mood ; 
Why that smile which seems to whisper — 

4 1 am happy, God is good?' 
God is good : that truth eternal 

Sown for you in happier years, 
I must tend it in my shadow, 

Water it with tears. 
" Ah, sweet present ! I must lead thee 

By a daylight more subdued ; 
There must teach thee low to whisper — 

' I am mournful, God is good ! ' " 
Peace, thou future ! clouds are coming, 

Stooping from the mountain crest, 
But that sunshine floods the valley : 

Let her — let her rest. 
Comes the future to the present — 

" Child," she saith, " and wilt thou rest? 
How long, child, before thy footsteps 

Fret to reach yon cloudy crest ? 
Ah, the valley ! — angels guard it, 

But the heights are brave to see ; 
Looking down were long contentment ; 

Come up, child, to me." 
So she speaks, but do not heed her, 

Little maid with wondrous eyes, 
Not afraid, but clear and tender, 

Blue, and filled with prophecies ; 
Thou for whom life's veil unlifted 

Hangs, whom warmest valleys fold, 
Lift the veil, the charm dissolveth — 

Climb, but heights are cold. 
There are buds that fold within them, 
Closed and covered from our sight, 
Many a richly tinted petal, 



192 MOTHER SHOWING THE PORTRAIT, ETC. 

Never looked on by the light ; 
Fain to see their shrouded faces, 

Sun and dew are long at strife. 
Till at length the sweet buds open — 

Such a bud is life. 

When the rose of thine own being 

Shall reveal its central fold, 
Thou shalt look within and marvel, 

Fearing what thine eyes behold ; 
What it shows and what it teaches 

Are not things wherewith to part ; 
Thorny rose ! that always costeth 

Beatings at the heart. 

Look in fear, for there is dimness ; 

Ills unshapen iloat anigh. 
Look in awe : for this same nature 

Once the Godhead deigned to die. 
Look in love, for lie doth love it, 

And its tale is best of lore : 
Still humanity grows dearer, 

Being learned the more. 

Learn, but not the less bethink thee 

How that all can mingle tears ; 
But, his joy can none discover, 

Save to them that are his peers ; 
And that they whose lips do utter 

Language such as bards have sung — 
Lo ! their speech shall be to many 

As an unknown tongue. 

Learn, that if to thee the meaning 

Of all other eyes be shown, 
Fewer eyes can ever front thee, 

That are skilled to read thine own ; 



STRIFE AND PEACE. 193 

And that if thy love's deep current 

Many another's far outflows, 
Then thy heart must take forever, 

Less than it bestows. 



STRIFE AND PEACE. 

["Written for The Portfolio Society, October, 1861. J 

The yellow poplar leaves come down 

And like a carpet lay, 
No waftings were in the sunny air 

To flutter them away ; 
And he stepped on blithe and debonair 

That warm October day. 

" The boy," said he. " hath got his own, 

But sore has been the light, 
For ere his life began the strife 

That ceased but yesternight ; 
For the will," he said, " the kinsfolk read, 

And read it not aright. 

" His cause was argued in the court 

Before his christening day ; 
And counsel was heard, and judge demurred. 

And bitter waxed the fray ; 
Brother with brother spake no word 

When they met in the way. 

' w Against each one did each contend, 

And all against the heir. 
I would not bend, for 1 knew the end — 

I have it for my share, 
And nought repent, though my first friend 

From henceforth I must spare. 



194 STRIFE AND PEACE. 

" Manor and moor and farm and wold 
Their greed begrudged him sore, 

And parchments old with passionate hold 
They guarded heretofore ; 

And they carped at signature and seal, 
But they may carp no more. 

" An old affront will stir the heart 
Through years of rankling pain ; 

And I feel the fret that urged me yet- 
That warfare to maintain ; 

For an enemy's loss may well be set 
Above an infant's gain. 

" An enemy's loss I go to prove ; 

Laugh out, thou little heir ! 
Laugh in his face who vowed to chase 

Thee from thy birthright fair ; 
For I come to set thee in thy place : 

Laugh out, and do not spare." 

A man of strife, in wrathful mood 

He neared the nurse's door ; 
With poplar leaves the roof and eaves 

Were thickly scattered o'er, 
And yellow as they a sunbeam lay 

Along the cottage floor. 
" Sleep on, thou pretty, pretty lamb," 

He hears the fond nurse say ; 
" And if angels stand at thy right hand, 

As now belike they may, 
And if angels meet at thy bed's feet, 

I fear them not this day. 

" Come wealth, come want to thee, dear heart, 

It was all one to me, 
For thy pretty tongue far sweeter rung 

Than coined gold and fee ; 



STRIP' Ii AND PEACE. 195 



And ever the while thy waking smile 
It was right fair to see. 

u Sleep, pretty bairn, and never know 
Who grudged and who transgressed ; 

Thee to retain I was full fain, 
But God, He knoweth best ! 

And His peace upon thy brow lies plain 
As the sunshine on thy breast ! " 

The man of strife, he enters in, 
Looks, and his pride doth cease ; 

Anger and sorrow shall be to-morrow 
Trouble, and no release ; 

But the babe whose life awoke the strife 

* Hath entered into peace. 



STORY OF DOOM, 



AND OTHER POEMS. 



A STORY OF DOOM, AND OTHER POEMS. 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

I saw in a vision once, our mother-sphere 

The world, her fixed foredoomed oval tracing, 

Rolling and rolling on and resting never, 

While like a phantom fell, behind her pacing 

The unfurled flag of night, her shadow drear 
Fled as she fled and hung to her forever. 

Great Heaven ! methought, how strange a doom to 
share. 

Would I may never bear 

Inevitable darkness after me 
(Darkness endowed with drawings strong. 

And shadowy hands that cling unendingly), 

Nor feel that phantom-wings behind me sweep, 
As she feels night pursuing through the long 

Illimitable reaches of " the vasty deep." 



God save you, gentlefolks. There was a man 
Who lay awake at midnight on his bed, 

Watching the spiral flame that feeding ran 
Among the logs upon his hearth, and shed 

A comfortable glow, both warm and dim, 

On crimson curtains that encompassed him. 

Right stately was his chamber, soft and white 

The pillow, and his quilt was eider-down. 
What mattered it to him through all that night 



200 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

The desolate driving cloud might lower and frown, 
And winds were up the eddying sleet to chase, 
That drave and drave and found no settling-place? 

What mattered it that leafless trees might rock, 
Or snow might drift athwart his window-pane ? 

He bare a charmed life against their shock, 
Secure from cold, hunger, and weather stain ; 

Fixed in his right, and born to good estate, 

From common ills set by and separate. 

From work and want and fear of want apart, 

This man (men called him Justice Wilvermore) — 

This man had comforted his cheerful heart 
With all that it desired from every shore. 

He had a right, — the right of gold is strong, — 

He stood upon his right his whole life long. 

Custom makes all things easy, and content 
Is careless, therefore on the storm and cold, 

As he lay waking, never a thought he spent, 
Albeit across the vale beneath the wold, 

Along a reedy mere that frozen lay, 

A range of sordid hovels stretched away. 

What cause had he to think on them, forsooth? 

What cause that night be}^ond another night? 
He was familiar even from his } 7 outh 

With their long ruin and their evil plight. 
The wintry wind would search them like a scout, 
The water froze within as freely as without. 

He think upon them? No! They were forlorn, 
So were the cowering inmates whom they held ; 

A thriftless tribe, to shifts and leanness born, 
Ever complaining : infancy or eld 

Alike. But there was rent, or long ago 

Those cottage roofs had met with overthrow. 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 201 

For this they stood ; and what his thoughts might be 
That winter night, I know not ; but I know 

That, while the creeping flame fed silently 
And east upon his bed a crimson glow, 

The Justice slept, and shortly in his sleep 

He fell to dreaming, and his dream was deep. 

He dreamed that over him a shadow came ; 

And when he looked to find the cause, behold 
Some person knelt between him and the flame : — 

A cowering figure of one frail and old, — 
A woman ; and she prayed as he descried, 
And spread her feeble hands, and shook and sighed. 

" Good Heaven ! " the Justice cried, and being dis- 
traught 

He called not to her, but he looked again : 
She wore a tattered cloak, but she had naught 

Upon her head ; and she did quake amain, 
And spread her wasted hands and poor attire 
To gather in the brightness of his fire. 

" I know you, woman ! " then the Justice cried ; 

':' I know that woman well," he cried aloud ; 
" The shepherd Aveland's widow : God me guide ! 

A pauper kneeling on my hearth : " and bowed 
The hag, like one at home, its warmth to share ! 
" How dares she to intrude? What does she there? 

" Ho, woman, ho ! " — but } 7 et she did not stir, 
Though from her lips a fitful plaining broke ; 

<% I'll ring my people up to deal with her ; 

I'll rouse the house," he cried ; but while he spoke 

He turned, and saw, but distant from his bed, 

Another form, — a Darkuess with a head. 

Then, in a rage, he shouted, "Who are you?" 

For little in tiie gloom he might discern. 
" Speak out ; speak now ; or I will make you rue 



2 02 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 



The hour!" but there was silence, and a stern. 
Dark face from out the dusk appeared to lean, 
And then again drew back, and was not seen. 

" God ! " cried the dreaming man, right impiously, 
" What have I done, that these my sleep affray?" 

iL God ! " said the Phantom, " I appeal to Thee, 
Appoint Thou me this man to be my prey." 

" God ! " sighed the kneeling woman, frail and old, 

" I pray Thee take me, for the world is cold." 

Then said the trembling Justice, in affright, 

" Fiend, I adjure thee, speak thine errand here ! " 

And lo ! it pointed in the failing light 

Toward the woman, answering, cold and clear, 

" Thou art ordained an answer to thy prayer ; 

But first to tell her tale that kneeleth there." 

" Her tale ! " the Justice cried. " A pauper's tale ! * 
And he took heart at this so low behest, 

And let the stoutness of his will prevail, 

Demanding, " Is't for her you break my rest? 

She went to jail of late for stealing wood, 

She will again for this night's hardihood. 

44 1 sent her ; and tc-morrow, as I live, 
I will commit her for this trespass here." 

u Thou wilt not!" quoth the Shadow, "thou wilt 
give 
Her story words ; " and then it stalked anear 

And showed a lowering face, and, dread to see, 

A countenance of angered majesty. 

Then said the Justice, all his thoughts astray, 
With that material Darkness chiding him, 

" If this must be, then speak to her, I pray, 
And bid her move, for all the room is dim 

By reason of the place she holds to-night: 

She kneels between me and the warmth and light 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 203 

" With adjurations deep and drawings strong, 
And with the power, ".it said, " unto me given, 

I call upon thee, man, to tell thy wrong, 
Or look no more upon the face of Heaven. 

Speak ! though she kneel throughout the livelong 
night, 

And yet shall kneel between thee and the light." 

This when the Justice heard, he raised his hands, 

And held them as the dead in effigy 
Hold theirs, when carved upon a tomb. The bands 

Of fate had bound him fast : no remedy 
Was left : his voice unto himself was strange, 
And that unearthly vision did not change. 

He said, " That woman dwells anear my door, 
Her life and mine began the selfsame day, 

And I am hale and hearty : from my store 
I never spared her aught : she takes her way 

Of me unheeded ; pining, pinching care 

Is all the portion that she has to share. 

"She is a broken-down, poor, friendless wight, 
Through labor and through sorrow early old ; 

And I have known of this her evil plight, 
Her scanty earnings, and her lodgment cold ; 

A patienter poor soul shall ne'er be found : 

She labored on my land the long year round. 

" What wouldst thou have me say, thou Fiend ab- 
horred ? 

Show me no more thine awful visage grim. 
If thou obey'st a greater, tell thy lord 

That I have paid her wages. Cry to him ! 
He has not much against me. None can say 
I have not paid her wages day by day. 

64 The spell ! It draws me. I must speak again; 
And speak against nryself ; and speak aloud. 



204 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE, 

The woman once approached me to complain, — 

' My wages are so low.' I may be proud ; 
It is a fault." " Ay," quoth the Phantom fell, 
" Sinner ! it is a fault : thou sayest well." 

" She made her moan, ' My wages are so low.' " 
"Tell on!" "She said," he answered, " ' My 
best days 

Are ended, and the summer is but slow 

To come ; and my good strength for work decays 

By reason that I live so hard, and lie 

On winter nights so bare for poverty.' " 

" And you replied," — began the lowering Shade, 
u And I replied," the Justice followed on, 

" That wages like to mine my neighbor paid ; 
And if I raised the wages of the one 

Straight should the others murmur ; furthermore, 

The winter was as winters gone before. 

" No colder and not longer." " Afterward ? " — 
The Phantom questioned. "Afterward," he 
groaned, 

" She said my neighbor was a right good lord, 
Never a roof was broken that he owned ; 

He gave much coal and clothing. ' Doth he so ? 

Work for my neighbor, then,' I answered, ' Go ! 

" ' You are full welcome.' Then she mumbled out 
She hoped I was not angry ; hoped, forsooth, 

I would forgive her : and I turned about, 
And said I should be angry in good truth 

If this should be again, or ever more 

She dared to stop me thus at the church door." 

"Then?" quoth the Shade; and he, constrained, 
said on, 
" Then she, reproved, curtseyed herself away." 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 205 

" Hast met her since?" it made demand anon ; 
And after pause the Justice answered, " Ay ; 
Some wood was stolen ; my people made a stir: 
She was accused, and I did sentence her." 

But yet, and yet, the dreaded questions came : 
44 And didst thou weigh the matter, — taking 
thought 

Upon her sober life and honest fame?" 

u I gave it," he replied, with gaze distraught; 

u I gave it, Fiend, the usual care ; I took 

The usual pains ; I could not nearer look, 

" Because — because their pilfering had got head. 

What wouldst thou more : The neighbors pleaded 
hard, 
'Tis true, and many tears the creature shed ; 

But I had vowed their prayers to disregard, 
Heavily strike the first that robbed my land, 
And put down thieving with a steady hand. 

" She said she was not guilty. Ay, 'tis true 
She said so, but the poor are liars all. 

O thou fell Fiend, what wilt thou? Must I view 
Thy darkness yet, and must thy shadow fall 

Upon me miserable? I have done 

No worse, no more than many a scathless one." 

" Yet," quoth the Shade, " if ever to thine ears 
The knowledge of her blamelessness was brought, 

Or others have confessed with dying tears 

The crime she suffered for, and thou hast wrought 

All reparation in thy power, and told 

Into her empty hand thy brightest gold : — 

" If thou hast honored her, and hast proclaimed 

Her innocence and thy deplored wrong, 
Still thou art naught ; for thou shalt yet be blamed 



206 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

In that she, feeble, came before thee, strong, 
And thou, in cruel haste to deal a blow, 
Because thou hadst been angered, worked her woe, 

11 Bat didst thou right her ? Speak!" The Justice 
sighed, 

And beaded drops stood out upon his brow; 
k - How could I humble me," forlorn he cried, 

• k To a base beggar? Nay, I will avow 
That I did ill. I will reveal the whole ; 
I kept that knowledge in my secret soul." 

"Hear him!" the Phantom muttered; "hear this 
man , 

O changeless God upon the judgment throne." 
With that, cold tremors through his pulses ran, 

And lamentably he did make his moan ; 
While, with its arms upraised above his head, 
The dim dread visitor approached his bed. 

"Into these doors," it said, iL which thou hast closed, 
Daily this woman shall from henceforth come ; 

Her kneeling form shall yet be interposed, 

Till all thy wretched hours have told their sura, — 

Shall yet be interposed by day, by night, 

Between thee, sinner, and the warmth and light. 

" Remembrance of her want shall make thy meal 
Like ashes, and thy wrong thou shalt not right. 

But what! Nay, verily, nor wealth nor weal 
From henceforth shall afford thy soul delight. 

Till men shall lay thy head beneath the sod, 

There shall be no deliverance, saith my God." 

" Tell me thy name," the dreaming Justice cried ; 

" By what appointment dost thou doom me thus?" 
" 'Tis well that thou shouldst know me." it replied, 

" For mine thou art, and naught shall sever us ; 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 207 

From thine own lips and life I draw my force : 
The name thy nation give me is Remorse." 

This when he heard, the dreaming man cried out, 
And woke affrighted ; and a crimson glow 

The dying ember shed- Within, without, 
In eddying rings the silence seemed to now ; 

The wind had lulled, and on his forehead shone 

The last low gleam ; he was indeed alone. 

^ O, I have had a fearful dream," said he ; 

" I will take warning and for mercy trust ; 
The fiend Remorse shall never dwell with me : 

I will repair that wrong, I will be just, 
I will be kind, I will my ways amend." 
Now the first dream is told unto its end. 

Anigh the frozen mere a cottage stood, 

A piercing wind swept round and shook the door, 

The shrunken door, and easy way made good, 
And drave long drifts of snow along the lioor. 

It sparkled there like diamonds, for the moon 

Was shining in, and night was at the noon. 

Before her dying embers, bent and pale, 
A woman sat because her bed was cold ; 

She heard the wind, the driving sleet and hail, 
And she was hunger-bitten, weak, and old ; 

Yet while she cowered, and while the casement shook, 

Upon her trembling knees she held a book — 

A comfortable book for them that mourn, 
And good to raise the courage of the poor ; 

It lifts the veil and shows, beyond the bourne, 
Their Elder Brother, from His home secure, 

That for them desolate He died to win, 

Repeating, " Come, ye blessed, enter id-" 



208 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

What thought she on, this woman? on her clays 
Of toil, or on the supperless night forlorn? 

L think not so; the heart but seldom weighs 
With conscious care a burden always borne; 

And she was used to these things, had grown old 

In fellowship with toil, hunger, and cold. 

Then did she think how sad it was to live 
Of all the good this world can yield bereft? 

No, her untutored thoughts she did not give 
To such a theme ; but in their warp and weft 

She wove a prayer : then in the midnight deep 

Faintly and slow she fell away to sleep. 

A strange, a marvellous sleep, which brought a dream, 
And it was this : that ad at once she heard 

The pleasant babbling of a little stream 
That ran beside her door, and then a bird 

Broke out in songs. She looked, and lo ! the rime 

And snow had melted ; it was summer time ! 

And all the cold was over, and the mere 

Full sweetly swayed the flags and rushes green ; 

The mellow sunlight poured right warm and clear 
Into her casement, and thereby were seen 

Fair honeysuckle flowers, and wandering bees 

Were hovering round the blossom-laden trees. 

She said, " I will betake me to my door, 

And will look out and see this wondrous sight, 

Mow summer is come back, and frost is o'er, 
And all the air warm waxen in a night." 

With that she opened, but for fear she cried, 

For lo ! two Angels, — one on either side. 

And while she looked, with marvelling measureless, 
The Angels stood conversing face to face, 

But neither spoke to her. " The wilderness, " 
One Angel said, tk the solitary place, 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 209 

Shall yet be glad for Him." And then full fain 
The other Angel answered, L ' lie shall reign." 

And when the woman heard, in wondering wise, 
She whispered, u They are speaking of my Lord.'' 

And straightway swept across the open skies 
Multitudes like to these. They took the word, 

That flock of Angels, " He shall come again, 

My Lord, my Lord!" they s.ang, "and He shall 
reign ! " 

Then they, drawn up into the blue o'erhead, 
Right happy, shining ones, made haste to flee ; 

And those before her one to other said, 

"Behold He stands ancath yon almond-tree." 

This when the woman heard, she fain had gazed, 

But paused for reverence, and bowed down amazed. 

After she looked, for this her dream was deep ; 

She looked, aiid there was naught beneath the tree ; 
Yet did her love and longing overleap 

The fear of Angels, awful though they be, 
And she passed out between the blessed things, 
And brushed her mortal weeds against their wings. 

O, all the happy world was in its best, 

The trees were covered thick with buds and flowers, 
And these were dropping honey ; for the rest, 

Sweetl}* the birds were piping in their bowers ; 
Across the grass did groups of Angels go, 
And Saints in pairs were walking to and fro. 

Then did she pass toward the almond-tree, 
And none she saw beneath it : yet each Saint 

Upon his coming meekly bent the knee, 

And all their glory as they gazed waxed faint. 

And then a 'lighting Angel neared the place, 

And folded his fair wings before his face. 



2io THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

She also knelt, and spread her aged hands 
As feeling for the sacred human feet ; 

She said, ct Mine eves are held, but if He stands 
Anear, I will not let Him hence retreat 

Except He bless me." Then, O sweet ! O fair ! 

Some words were spoken, but she knew not where. 

She knew not if beneath the boughs they woke, 
Or dropt upon her from the realms above ; 

" What wilt thou, woman?" in the dream He spoke', 
" Thy sorrow moveth Me, thyself I love ; 

Long have I counted up thy mournful years, 

Once 1 did weep to wipe away thy tears." 

She said, " My one Redeemer, only blest, 

I know Thy voice, and from my yearning heart 

Draw out my deep desire, my great request, 
My prayer, that I might enter where Thou art. 

Call me, O call from this world troublesome, 

And let me see Thy face." He answered, " Come.'* 

Here is the ending of the second dream. 

It is a frost}' morning, keen and cold, 
Fast locked are silent mere and frozen stream, 

And snow lies sparkling on the desert wold ; 
With savory morning meats they spread the board, 
But Justice Wilvermore will walk abroad. 

" Bring me my cloak," quoth he, as one in haste. 

" Before you breakfast, sir?" his man replies. 
" Ay," quoth he, quickly, and he will not taste 

Of aught before him, but in urgent wise, 
As he would fain some carking care allay, 
Across the frozen field he takes his way. 

tw A dream ! how strange that it should move me sc 
'Twas but a dream," quoth Justice Wilvermore: 

tl And yet I cannot peace nor pleasure know, 
For wrongs I have not heeded heretofore ; 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 211 

Silver and gear the crone shall have of me, 
And dwell for life in yonder cottage free. 

" For visions of the night are fearful things, 
Remorse is dread, though merely in a dream ; 

I will not subject me to visitings 

Of such a sort again. I will esteem 

My peace above my pride. From natures rude, 

A little gold will buy me gratitude. 

" The woman shall have leave to gather wood 
As much as she may need, the long year round; 

She snail, I say ; moreover, it were good 
Yon other cottage roofs to render sound. 

Thus to my soul the ancient peace restore, 

And sleep at ease," quoth Justice Wilvermore. 

With that he nears the door-: a frosty rime 
Is branching over it, and drifts are deep 

Against the wall. He knocks, and there is time — 
(For none doth open), — time to list the sweep, 

And whistle of the wind along the mere, 

Through beds of stiffened reeds and rushes sear. 

u If she be out, I have my pains for naught," 
He saith, and knocks again, and yet once more, 

But to his ear nor step nor stir is brought ; 
And, after pause, he doth unlatch the door 

And enter. No ; she is not out, for see, 

She sits asleep 'midst frost-work winterly. 

Asleep, asleep before her empty grate, 
Asleep, asleep, albeit the landlord call. 

44 What, dame," he saith, and comes toward her 
straight, 
" Asleep so early ! " But whate'er befall, 

She sleepeth ; then he nears her, and behold 

He lavs a hand on hers, and it is cold. 



212 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

Then doth the Justice to his home return ; 

From that day forth he wears a sadder brow ; 
His hands are opened, and his heart doth learn 

The patience of the poor. He made a vow 
And keeps it, for the old and sick have shared 
His gifts, their sordid homes he hath repaired. 

And some he hath made happy, but for him 
Is happiness no more. He doth repent, 

And now the light of joy is waxen dim, 
Are all his steps toward the Highest sent; 

He looks for mercy, and he waits release 

Above, for this world doth not yield him peace. 

Night after night, night after desolate night, 
Day after day, day after tedious day, 

Stands by his fire, and dulls its gleamy light, 
Paceth behind or meets him in the way ; 

Or shares the path by hedge-row, mere, or stream, 

The visitor that doomed him in his dream. 



Thy kingdom come. 
I heard a Seer cry : "The wilderness, 

The solitary place, 
Shall yet be glad for Him, and He shall bless 
(Thy kingdom come) with His revealed face 
The forests ; they shall drop their precious gum, 
4nd shed for Him their balm : and He shall y T ield 
The grandeur of His speech to charm the field. 

,k Then all the soothed winds shall drop to listen, 

(Thy kingdom come,) 
Comforted waters waxen calm shall glisten 
With bashful tivinblemeiit beneath His smile: 

And Echo ever the while 
Shall take, and in her awful joy repeat, 

9 



SONGS OAT THE VOICES OE BIRDS. 213 



The laughter of His lips — (Thy kingdom come) : 
And bills that sit apart shall be no longer dumb; 

No, they shall shout and shout, 
Raining their lovely loyalty along the dewy plain : 

And valleys round about, 

" And all the well-contented land, made sweet 

With llowers she opened at His feet, 
Shall answer ; shout and make the welkin ring, 
And tell it to the stars, shout, shout, and sing ; 

Hei cup being full to the brim, 

Her poverty made rich with Him, 
Her yearning satisfied to its utmost sum — 
Lift up thy voice, O Earth, prepare thy song, 

It shall not yet be long, 
Lift up, O Earth, for He shall come again, 
Thy Lord ; and He shall reign, and He shall reign, — ■ 

Thy kingdom come." 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

introduction. 

Child and Boatman. 

" Martin, I wonder who makes all the songs." 
44 You do, sir?" 

" Yes. I wonder how they come." 
"Well, boy, I wonder what you'll wonder next! " 
" But somebody must make them?" 

u Sure enough." 
st Does your wife know? " 

" She never said she did." 
" You told me that she knew so many things." 
"I said she was a London woman, sir, 
And a fine scholar, but I never said 
She knew about the songs." 



'o' 



214 SONGS ON THE VOICES OE BIRDS. 

" I wish she did." 
" And I wish no such thing ; she knows enough, 
She knows too much already. Look you now, 
This vessel's off the stocks, a tidy craft." 
u A schooner, Martin? " 

" No, boy, no ; a bri< 
Only she's schooner- rigged, — a lovely craft." 
" Is she for me? O, thank you, Martin, dear. 
What shall I call her?" 

" Well, sir, what you please. " 
" Then write on her ' The Eagle.' " 

"Bless the child! 
Eagle ! why, you know naught of eagles, you. 
When we lay off the coast, up Canada way, 
And chanced to be ashore when twilight fell, 
That was the place for eagles ; bald they were, 
With eyes as yellow as gold." 

" O Martin, dear, 
Tell me about them." 

" Tell ! there's naught to tell, 
Only they snored o' nights and frighted us." 
"Snored?" 

" Ay, I tell you, snored ; they slept upright 
In the great oaks by scores ; as true as time, 
If I'd had aught upon my mine! just then, [gold ; 
I wouldn't have walked that wood for unknown 
It was most awful. When the moon was full, 
I've seen them fish at night, in the middle watch. 
When she got low. I've seen them plunge like 

stones, 
And come up fighting with a fish as long. 
Ay, longer than my arm ; and they would sail — 
When they had struck its life out — they would sail 
Over the deck, and show their fell, fierce eyes, 
And croon for pleasure, hug the pre}', and speed 
Grand as a frigate on the wind." 



THE NIGHTINGALE, ETC. 215 

' l My ship, 
She must be called ' The Eagle ' after these. 
And, Martin, ask your wife about the songs 
When you go in at dinner-time." 

"Not I." 



THE NIGHTINGALE HEARD BY THE UNSAT- 
ISFIED HEART. 

When in a May-day hush 
Chanteth the Missel-thrush, 
The harp o' the heart makes answer with murmur- 
ous stirs ; 
When Robin-redbreast sings, 
We think on budding springs, 
And Culvers when they coo are love's remembran- 
cers. 

But thou in the trance of light 

Stayest the feeding night, 
And Echo makes sweet her lips with the utterance 
wise, 

And casts at our glad feet, 

In a wisp of fancies fleet, 
Life's fair, life's unfulfilled, impassioned prophecies. 

Her central thought full well 

Thou hast the wit to tell, 
To take the sense o' the dark and to yield it so ; 

The moral of moonlight 

To set in a cadence bright, 
And sing our loftiest dream that we thought none 
did know. 

I have no nest as thou, 
Bird on the blossoming bough, 
Yet over thy tongue outlloweth the song o' my soul, 



2i 6 SAND MARTINS. 

Chanting, "Forego thy strife, 
The spirit out-acts the life, 
But much is seldom theirs who can perceive the 
whole. 

" Thou drawest a perfect lot 

All thiue, but holdeu not, 
Lie low, at the feet of beauty that ever shall bide ; 

There might be sorer smart 

Thau thiue, far-seeing heart, 
Whose fate is still to yearn, and not be satisfied." 



SAND MARTINS. 

I passed an inland-clUl' precipitate ; 

From tiuy caves peeped many a soot-black poll ; 
In each a mother-martin sat elate, 

And of the news delivered her small soul. 

Fantastic chatter! hasty, glad and gay, 
Whereof the meaning was not ill to tell : 

*' Gossip, how wags the world with you to-day?" 
" Gossip, the world wags well, the world wags 
well." 

And hark'uiug, I was sure their little ones 

Were in the bird-talk, and discourse was made 

Concerning hot sea-bights and tropic suns, 
For a clear sultriness the tune conveyed ; — 

And visions of the sky as of a cup 

Hailing down light on pagan Pharaoh's sand, 
And quivering air-waves trembling up and up, 

And blank stone faces marvellously bland. 

"When should the young be fledged and with them 

hie 
Where costly day drops down in crimson light? 



SAND MARTINS. 217 

(Fortunate countries of the fire-fly 

Swarm with blue diamonds all the sultry night, 

" And the immortal moon takes turn with them.) 
When should they pass again by that red land, 

Where lovely mirage works a broidered hem 
To fringe with phantom-palms a robe of sand? 

" When should they dip their breasts again and play 
In slumberous azure pools, clear as the air, 

Where rosy-winged flamingoes fish all day, 
Stalking amid the lotos-blossom fair? 

" Then, over podded tamarinds bear their flight, 
While cassias blossom in the zone of calms, 

And so betake them to a south sea-bight, 
To gossip in the crowns of cocoa-palms 

"Whose roots are in the spray. O, haply there 
Some dawn, white-winged they might chance to 
find 

A frigate, standing in to make more fair 
The loneliness unaltered of mankind. 

" A frigate come to water : nuts would fall. 

And nimble feet would climb the flower-flushed 
strand, 

While northern talk would ring, and therewithal 
The martins would desire the cool north land. 

1 And all would be as it had been before ; 

Again, at eve, there would be news to tell ; 
Who passed should hear them chant it o'er and o'er, 
'Gossip, how wags the world?' 'Well, gossip, 
well."' 



2i8 A POET IN HIS YOUTH, AND 



A POET IN HIS YOUTH, AND THE CUCKOO- 
BIRD. 

Once upon a time, I lay 
Fast asleep at dawn of day ; 
Windows open to the south, 
Fancy pouting her sweet mouth 
To my ear. 

She turned a globe 
In her slender hand, her robe 
Was all spangled ; and she said, 
As she sat at my bed's head, 
"Poet, poet, what! asleep? 
Look ! the ray runs up the steep 
To your roof." Then in the golden 
Essence of romances olden, 
Bathed she my entranced heart. 
And she gave a hand to me, 
Drew me onward ; " Come ! " said she ; 
And she moved with me apart, 
Down the lovely vale of Leisure 

Such its name was, I heard say, 
For some fairies trooped that way ; 
Common people of the place, 
Taking their accustomed pleasure 
(All the clocks being stopped), to race 
Down the slope on palfreys fleet. 
Bridle bells made tinkling sweet ; 
And they said, " What signified 
Faring home till eventide ; 
There were pics on every shelf, 
And the bread would bake itself." 
But for that I cared not, fad, 
As it were, with angels' bread, 



THE CUCKOO-BIRD. 



219 



Sweet us honey ; yet next da} 7 
All foredoomed to' melt away ; 
Gone before the sun waxed hot, 
Melted manna that was not. 

Rock-doves' poetry of plaint, 
Or the starling's courtship quaint, 
Heart made much of ; 'twas a boon 
Won from silence, and too soon 
Wasted in the ample air : 
Building rooks far distant were. 
Scarce at all would speak the rills s 
And I saw the idle hills, 
In their amber hazes deep, 
Fold themselves and go to sleep, 
Though it was not yet high noon. 

Silence? Rather music brought 
From the spheres ! As if a thought, 
Having taken wings, did fly 
Through the reaches of the sky. 
Silence ? No, a sumptuous sigh 
That had found embodiment, 
That had come across the deep 
After months of wintry sleep, 
And with tender heavings went 
Floating up the firmament. 



" O," I mourned, half slumbering yet, 
" 'Tis the voice of my regret, — 
Mine!" and I awoke. Full sweet 
Saffron sunbeams did me greet ; 
And the voice it spake again, 
Dropped from yon blue cup of light 
Or some cloudlet swan's-down white 
On my soul, that drank full fain 
The sharp joy — the sweet pain — 



A POET IN HIS YOUTH, ANU 

Of its clear, right innocent, 
Unreproved discontent. 
How it came — where it went — ■ 
Who can tell ! The open blue 
Quivered with it, and I, too, 
Trembled. I remembered me 
Of the springs that used to be, 
When a dimpled white-haired child, 
Shy and tender and half wild, 
In the meadows I had heard 
Some way off the talking bird, 
And had felt it marvellous sweet, 
For it laughed : it did me greet, 
Calling me : yet, hid away 
In the woods, it would not play. 
No. 

And all the world about, 
While a man will work or sing, 
Or a child pluck flowers of spring, 
Thou wilt scatter music out, 
Rouse him with thy wandering note, 
Changeful fancies set afloat, 
Almost tell with thy clear throat, 
But not quite, the wonder-rife, 
Most sweet riddle, dark and dim, 
That he searcheth all his life, 
Searcheth yet, and ne'er expoundeth; 
And so, winnowing of thy wings, 
Touch and trouble thy heart's strings, 
That a certain music soundeth 
In that wondrous instrument, 
With a trembling upward sent, • 
That is reckoned sweet above 
By the Greatness surnamed Love. 

**0, I hear thee in the blue; 
Would that I might wing it too! 



THE CUCKOO-BIRD. 



O to have what hope hath seen ! 
O to be what might have been ! 

to set my life, sweet bird, 
To a tune that oft I heard 
When I used to stand alone 
Listening to the lovely moan 
Of the swaying pines o'erhead, 
While, a-gathering of bee-bread 
For their living, murmured round, 
As the pollen dropped to ground, 
All the nations from the hives ; 
And the little brooding wives 

On each nest, brown dusky things, 
Sat with gold-dust on their wings. 
Then beyond (more sweet than all) 
Talked the tumbling waterfall ; 
And there were, and there were not 
(As might fall, and form anew 
Bell-hung drops of honey- dew) 
Echoes of — I know not what ; 
As if some right-joyous elf, 
While about his own affairs, 
Whistled softly otherwheres. 
Nay, as if our mother dear, 
Wrapt in sun-warm atmosphere, 
Laughed a little to herself, 
Laughed a little as she rolled, 
Thinking on the days of old. 

" Ah! there be some hearts, I wis, 
To which nothing comes amiss. 
Mine was one. Much secret wealth 

1 was heir to : and by stealth, 
When the moon w r as fully grown, 
And she thought herself alone, 

I have heard her, ay, right well, 
Shoot a silver message down 



222 A POET IN HIS YOUTH, ETC. 

To the unseen sentinel 

Of a still, snow-thatched town. 

u Once, awhile ago, 1 peered 
In the nest where Spring was reared. 
There she, quivering her fair wings, 
Flattered March with chirrupings ; 
And the} - fed her ; nights and days, 
Fed her mouth with much sweet food, 
And her heart with love and praise, 
Till the wild thing rose and flew 
Over woods and water-springs, 
Shaking off the morning dew 
In a rainbow from her wings. 

" Once (I will to you confide 
More), — O, once iu forest wide, 
I, benighted, overheard 
Marvellous mild echoes stirred, 
And a calling half defined, 
And an answering from afar ; 
Somewhat talked with a star, 
And the talk was of mankind. 

" ' Cuckoo, cuckoo ! ' 

Float anear in upper blue : 

Art thou yet a prophet true? 

Wilt thou say, ' And having seen 

Things that be, and have not been, 

Thou art free o' the world, for naught 

Can despoil thee of thy thought ' ? 

Nay, but make me music yet, 

Bird, as deep as my regret ; 

For a certain hope hath set, 

Like a star, and left me heir 

To a crying for its light, 

An aspiring infinite, 

And a beautiful despair ! 



A RAVEN IN A WHITE CHINE. 223 



fc4 Ah ! no more, no more, no more 

I shall lie at thy shut door, 

Mine ideal, my desired, 

Dreaming thou wilt open it, 

And step out, thou most admired, 

By my side to fare, or sit, 

Quenching hunger and all drouth 

With the wit of thy fair mouth, 

Showing me the wished prize 

In the calm of thy dove's eyes, 

Teaching me the wonder-rife 

Majesties of human life, 

All its fairest possible sum, 

And the grace of its to come. 

" What a difference ! Why of late 

All sweet music used to say, 

' She will come, and with thee stay 

To-morrow, man, if not to-day.' 

Now it rumors, ' Wait, wait, wait ! ' ' 



A RAVEN IN A WHITE CHINE. 

I saw, when I looked up, on either hand, 

A pale high chalk-cliff, reared aloft in white ; 
A narrowing rent soon closed toward the land, — 

Toward the sea, an open yawning bight. 
The polished tide, with scarce a hint of blue, 

Washed in the bight ; above with angry moan 
A raven, that was robbed, sat up in view, 

Croaking and crying on a ledge alone. 
" Stand on thy nest, spread out thy fateful wings, 

With sullen hungry love bemoan thy brood, 
For boys have wrung their necks, those imp-like 
things, 

Whose beaks dripped crimson daily at their food. 



224 A RAVEN IN A WHITE CHINE. 

kt Cry, thou black prophetess ! cry, and despair; 

None love thee, none ! Their father was thy foe, 
Whose father in his youth did know thy lair, 

And steal thy little demons long ago. 

4 - Thou madest many childless for their sake, 
And picked out many eyes that loved the light. 

Cry, thou black prophetess ! sit up, awake, 

Forebode ; and ban them through the desolate 
night." 

Lo ! while I spake it, with a crimson hue 
The dipping sun endowed that silver flood, 

And all the cliffs flushed red, and up she flew, 
The bird, as mad to bathe in airy blood. 

'•' Nay, thou mayst cry, the omen is not thine, 
Thou aged priestess of fell doom, and fate. 

It is not blood : thy gods are making wine, 
They spilt the must outside their city gate, 

" And stained their azure pavement with the lees : 
Thej- will not listen though thou cry aloud. 

Old Chance, thy dame, sits mumbling at her ease, 
Nor hears ; the fair hag, Luck, is in her shroud. 

"They heed not, they withdraw the sky-hung sign: 
Thou hast no charm against the favorite race ; 

Thy gods pour out for it, not blood, but wine : 
There is no justice in their dwelling-place ! 

" Safe in their father's house the boys shall rest, 
Though thy fell brood doth stark and silent lie ; 

Their unborn sons may yet despoil thy nest : 
Cry, thou black prophetess ! lift up ! cry, cry ! " 



THE WARBLING OE BLACKBIRDS. 22^ 



THE WARBLING OF BLACKBIRDS. 

When I hear the witters fretting, 
AVhen I see the chestnut letting 
All her lovely blossom falter down, I think, " Alas 
the day!" 
Once, with magical sweet singing, 
Blackbirds set the woodland ringing, 
That awakes no more while April hours wear them- 
selves away. 

In our hearts fair hope lay smiling, 
Sweet as air, and all beguiling ; 
And there hung a mist of bluebells on the slope and 
down the dell ; 
And we talked of joy and splendor 
That the years unborn would render, 
And the blackbirds helped us with the story, for 
they knew it well. 

Piping, fluting, "Bees are humming, 

April's here, and summer's coming ; 
Don't forget us when you walk, a man with men, in 
pride and joy ; 

Think on us in alleys shady, 

When you step a graceful lady ; [boy- 

For no fairer day have we to hope for, little girl and 

" Laugh and play, O lisping waters, 
Lull our downy sons and daughters ; 
Come, O w r ind, and rock their leafy cradle in thy 
wanderings coy ; 
When they wake, we'll end the measure 
With a wild sweet cry of pleasure, 
And a ' Hey down derry, let's be merry ! little girl 
and bov ! ' " 



2 2 6 SEA-MEWS IN WINTER TIME. 



SEA-MEWS IN WINTER TIME. 

I walked beside a dark gray sea, 

And said, "0 world, how cold thou art! 

Thou poor white world, I pity thee, 
For joy aud warmth from thee depart. 

" Yon rising wave licks off the snow, 
Winds on the crag each other chase, 

In little powdery whirls they blow 
The misty fragments down its face. 

** The sea is cold, and dark its rim, 
Winter sits cowering on the wold, 

And I, beside this watery brim, 
Am also lonely, also cold." 

I spoke, and drew toward a rock, 

Where many mews made twittering sweet ; 
Their wings upreared, the clustering flock 

Did pat the sea-grass with their feet. 

A rock but half submerged, the sea 
Ran up and washed it while they fed ; 

Their fond and foolish ecstacy 
A wondering in my fancy bred. 

Joy companied with ever} 7 cry, 

Joy in their food, in that keen wind, 

That heaving sea, that shaded sky, 
And in themselves, and in their kind. 

The phantoms of the deep at play ! 

What idless graced the twittering things ; 
Luxurious pacldlings in the spray, 

And delicate lifting up of wings. 



LAURANCE. 227 



Then all at once a flight, and fast 
The lovely crowd flew out to sea ; 

If mine own life had been recast, 

Earth had not looked more changed to me. 

» Where is the cold? Yon clouded sides 
Have only dropped their curtains low 

To shade the old mother where she lies, 
Sleeping a little, 'neath the snow. 

" The cold is not in crag, nor scar, 
Not in the snows that lap the lea, 

Not in your wings that beat afar, 
Delighting, on the crested sea; 

" No, nor in yon exultant wind 

That shakes the oak and bends the pine. 
Look near, look in, and thou shalt find 

No sense of cold, fond fool, but thine !" 

With that I felt the gloom depart, 
And thoughts within me did unfold, 

Whose sunshine warmed me to the heart : 
I walked in joy, and was not cold. 



LAURANCE. 



He knew she did not love him ; but so long 

As rivals were unknown to him, he dwelt 

At ease, and did not find his love a pain. 

He had much deference in his nature, need 

To honor, — it became him : he was frank, 

Fresh, hardy, of a joyous mind, and strong, — 

Looked all things straight in the face. So when she 

came 
Before him first, he looked at her, and looked 



228 LAURANCE. 



No more, but colored to his healthful brow, 

And wished himself a better man, and thought 

On certain things, and wished they were undone, 

Because her girlish innocence, the grace 

Of her unblemished pureness, wrought in him 

A longing and aspiring, and a shame 

To think how wicked was the world, — that world 

Which he must walk in, — while from her (aud such 

As she was) it was hidden ; there was made 

A clean path, and the girl moved on like one 

In some enchanted ring. 

In his young heart 
She reigned, with all the beauties that she had, 
And all the virtues that he rightly took 
For granted ; there he set her with her crown, 
And at her first enthronement he turned out 
Much that was best away, for unaware 
His thoughts grew noble. She was always there 
And knew it not, and he grew like to her, 
And like to what he thought her. 

Now he dwelt 
With kin that loved him well, — two fine old folk, 
A rich, right honest yeoman, and his dame, — 
Their only grandson he, their pride, their heir. 
To these one daughter had been born, one child, 
And as she grew to woman, " Look," they said, 
" She must not leave us ; let us build a wing, 
With cheerful rooms and wide, to our old grange ; 
There may she dwell, with her good man, and all 
God sends them." Then the girl in her first youth 
Married a curate, — handsome, poor in purse, 
Of gentle blood and manners, and he lived 
Under her father's roof, as they had planned. 

Full soon, for happy years are short, they filled 
The house with children ; four were born to them. 



LAURANCE. 229 



Then came a sickly season ; fever spread 
Among the poor. The curate, never slack 
In duty, praying by the sick, or, worse, 
Burying the dead, when all the air was clogged 
With poisonous mist, was stricken ; long he lay 
Sick, almost to the death, and when his head 
He lifted from the pillow, there was left 
One only of that pretty flock : his^girls, 
His three, were cold beneath the sod ; his boy, 
Their eldest born, remained. 

The drooping wife 
Bore her great sorrow in such quiet wise, 
That first they marvelled at her, then they tried 
To rouse her, showing her their bitter grief, 
Lamenting, and not sparing; but she sighed, 
" Let me alone, it will not be for long." 
Then did her mother tremble, murmuring out, 
" Dear child, the best of comfort will be soon. 
O, when you see this other little face, 
You will, please God, be comforted." 

She said, 
" I shall not live to see it ; " but she did, — 
A little sickly face, a wan, thin face. 
Then she grew eager, and her e} T es were bright 
When she would plead with them, ki Take me awa} r 9 
Let me go south ; it is the bitter blast 
That chills my tender babe ; she cannot thrive 
Under the desolate, dull, mournful cloud." 
Then they all journeyed south together, mute 
With past and coming sorrow, till the sun, 
In gardens edging the blue tideless main, 
Warmed them and calmed the aching at their hearts, 
And all went better for a while ; but not 
For long. They sitting by the orange- trees 
Once rested, and the wife was very still: 



230 LAURANCE. 

A woman with narcissus flowers heaped up 
Let down her basket from her head, but paused 
With pitying gesture, and drew near and stooped, 
Taking a white wild face upon her breast. 
The little babe on its poor mother's knees, 
None marking it, none knowing else, had died. 
The fading mother could not sta}- behind, 
Her heart was broken ; but it awed them most 
To feel the}' must not, dared not, pray for life, 
Seeing she longed to go, and went so gladly. 
After, these three, who loyed each other well, 
Brought their one child away, and they were best 
Together in the wide old grange. Full oft 
The father with the mother talked of her, 
Their daughter, but the husband neyermore ; 
He looked for solace in his work, and gave 
His mind to teach his boy. And time went on, 
Until the grandsire prayed those other two, 
" Now part with him ; it must be ; for his good : 
He rules and knows it ; choose for him a school, 
Let him have all advantages, and all 
Good training that should make a gentleman." 

With that they parted from their boy, and lived 
Longing between his holidays, and time 
Sped ; he grew on till he had eighteen years. 
His father loyed him, wished to make of him 
Another parson ; but the farmer's wife 
Murmured at that — "No, no, they learned bad ways, 
They ran in debt at college ; she had heard 
That many rued the day they sent their boys 
To college ; " and between the two broke in 
His grandsire, " Find a sober, honest man, 
A scholar, for our lad should see the world 
While he is young, that he may marry young. 
lie will not settle and be satisfied 



LAURANCE. 2 ?i 



Till lie has run about the world awhile. 

Good lack, I longed to travel in my youth, 

And had no chance to do it. Send him off, 

A. sober man being found to trust him with, — 

One with the fear of God before his eyes." 

And he prevailed ; the careful father chose 

A tutor, young, the worthy matron thought, — 

In truth, not ten years older than her boy, 

And glad as he to range, and keen for snows, 

Desert, and ocean. And they made strange choice 

Of where to go, left the sweet day behind, 

And pushed up north in whaling ships, to feel 

What cold was, see the blowing whale come up, 

And Arctic creatures, while a scarlet sun 

Went round and round, crowd on the clear blue berg, 

Then did the trappers have them ; and they heard 

Nightly the whistling calls of forest-men 

That mocked the forest wonders ; and the}* saw 

Over the open, raging up like doom, 

The dangerous dust-cloud, that was full of eyes — 

The bisons. So were three years gone like one ; 

And the old cities drew them for awhile, 

Great mothers, by the Tiber and the Seine ; 

They have hid many sons hard by their seats, 

But all the air is stirring with them still, 

The waters murmur of them, skies at eve 

Are stained with their rich blood, and every sound 

Means men. 

At last, the fourth year running out, 
The youth came home. And all the cheerful house 
Was decked in fresher colors, and the dame 
Was full of joy. But in the father's heart 
Abode a painful doubt. " It is not well ; 
He cannot spend his life with dog and gun. 
I do not care that my one son should sleep 



232 LAURANCE. 



Merely for keeping him in breath, and wake 
Only to ride to cover." 

Not the less 
The grandsire pondered. " Ay, the boy must work 
Or spend ; and I must let him spend ; just stay 
Awhile with us, and then from time to time 
Have leave to be away with those fine folk 
With whom, these many years, at school, and now, 
During his sojourn in the foreign towns, 
He has been made familiar." Thus a month 
Went by. They liked the stirring ways of youth, 
The quick elastic step, and joyous mind, 
Ever expectant of it knew not what, 
But something higher than has e'er been born 
Of easy slumber and sweet competence. 
And as for him, the while they thought and thought 
A comfortable instinct let him know 
How they had waited for him, to complete 
And give a meaning to their lives ; and still 
At home, but with a sense of newness there, 
And frank and fresh as in the school-boy days, 
He oft — invading of his father's haunts. 
The stud}' where he passed the silent morn — 
Would sit, devouring with a greedy joy 
The piled-up books, uncut as yet ; or wake 
To guide with him by night the tube, and search, 
Ay, think to find new stars ; then, risen betimes, 
Would ride 'about the farm, and list the talk 
Of his hale grandsire. 

But a day came round, 
When, after peering in his mother's room, 
Shaded and shuttered from the light, he oped 
A door, and found the rosy grandmother 
Ensconced and happy in her special pride, 
Her storeroom. She was corking syrups rare, 
And fruits all sparkling in a crystal coat. 



LAURANCE, 233 



Here, after choice of certain cates well known, 
He, sitting on her bacon-chest at ease, 
Sang as he watched her, till, right suddenly, 
As if a new thought came, " Goody," qnoth he, 
tb What, think you, do they want to do with me? 
What have they planned for me that I should do? " 



a 



Do, laddie ! " quoth she. faltering, half in tears ; 

Are you not happy with us? not content? 
Why would ye go away? There is no need 
That ye should do at all. O, bide at home. 
Have we not plenty ? " 

u Even so," he said ; 
" I did not wish to go." 

u Na}', then," quoth she, 
" Be idle ; let me see 3^0111* blessed face. 
What, is the horse your father chose for you 
Not to your mind? He is? Well, well, remain ; 
Do as you will, so you but do it here. 
You shall not want for money." 

But, his arms 
Folding, he sat and twisted up his mouth 
With comical discomfiture. 

" What, then," 
She sighed, "what is it, child, that you would like? " 
" Why," said he, " farming." 

And she looked at him 
Fond, foolish woman that she was, to find 
Some fitness in the worker for the work. 
And she found none. A certain grace there was 
Of movement, and a beauty in the face, 
Sun-browned and healthful beauty, that had come 
From his grave father ; and she thought, " Good lack, 
A farmer ! he is fitter for a duke. 



234 LAURANCE. 



He walks — why, how he walks ! if I should meet 
One like him, whom I knew not, I should ask, 
4 And who may that be?'" So the foolish thought 
Found words. Quoth she, half laughing, half 

ashamed, 
44 We planned to make of you — a gentleman." 
And, with engaging sweet audacity, — 
She thought it nothing less, — he, looking up, 
With a smile in his blue eyes, replied to her, 
44 And haven't you done it? " Quoth she, lovingly, 
" I think we have, laddie ; I think we have." 
44 Then," quoth he, " I may do what best I like ; 
It makes no matter. Goody, you were wise 
To help me in it, and to let me farm ; 
I think of getting into mischief else ! " 
44 No ! do ye, laddie? " quoth the dame, and laughed. 
44 But ask my grandfather," the youth went on, 
44 To let me have the farm he bought last year, 
The little one, to manage. I like land ; 
I want some." And she, womanlike, gave way, 
Convinced ; and promised, and made good her word, 
And that same night upon the matter spoke, 
In presence of the father and the son. 

44 Roger," quoth she, " our Laurance wants to farm ; 

I think he might do worse." The father sat 

Mute, but right glad. The grandson, breaking in, 

Set all his wish and his ambition forth ; 

But cunningly the old man hid his joy, 

And made conditions with a faint demur. 

Then, pausing, " Let your father speak," quoth he ; 

"lam content if he is." At his word 

The parson took him ; ay, and, parson like, 

Put a religious meaning in the work, 

Man's earliest work, and wished his son God speed. 



LAURANCE. 



235 



11. 

Thus all were satisfied, and, day by day, 

For two sweet years a happy course was theirs ; 

Happy, but yet the fortunate, the young 

Loved, and much cared-for, entered on his strife, — 

A stirring of the heart, a quickening keen 

Of sight and hearing to the delicate 

Beauty and music of an altered world — 

Began to walk in that mysterious light 

Which doth reveal and yet transform ; which gives 

Destiny, sorrow, youth, and death, and life, 

Intenser meaning ; in disquieting 

Lifts up ; a shining light : men call it Love. 

Fair, modest eyes had she, the girl he loved ; 

A silent creature, thoughtful, grave, sincere. 

She never turned from him with sweet caprice, 

Nor changing moved his soul to troublous hope, 

Nor dropped for him her heavy lashes low, 

But excellent in youthful grace came up ; 

And, ere his words were ready, passing on, 

Had left him all a-tremble ; yet made sure 

That by her own true will, and fixed intent, 

She held him thus remote. Therefore, albeit 

He knew she did not love him, yet so long 

As of a rival unaware, he dwelt 

All in the present, without fear, or hope, 

Enthralled and whelmed in the deep sea of love, 

And could not get his head above its wave 

To search the far horizon, or to mark 

Whereto it drifted him. 

So long, so long ; 
Then, on a sudden, came the ruthless fate, 
Showed him a bitter truth, and brought him bale 
All in the tolling out of noon. 

'Twas thus : 
Snow-time was come ; it had been snowing hard ; 



236 LAURANCE. 



Across the church-yard path he walked ; the clock 

Began to strike, and, as he passed the porch, 

Half turning, through a sense that came to him 

As of some presence in it, he beheld 

His love, and she had come for shelter there ; 

And all her face was fair with rosy bloom, 

The blush of happiness ; and one held up 

Her ungloved hand in both his own, and stooped 

Toward it, sitting by her. O, her eyes 

Were full of peace and tender light : they looked 

One moment in the ungraced lover's face 

While he was passing in the snow ; and he 

Received the story, while he raised his hat 

Retiring. Then the clock left off to strike, 

And that was all. It snowed, and he walked on ; 

And in a certain way he marked the snow, 

And walked, and came upon the open heath ; 

And in a certain way he marked the cold, 

And walked as one that had no starting-place 

Might walk, but not to any certain goal. 

And he strode on toward a hollow part, 

Where from the hillside gravel had been dug, 

And he was conscious of a cry, and went, 

Dulled in his sense, as though he heard it not ; 

Till a small farm-house drudge, a half-grown girl, 

Rose from the shelter of a drift that lay 

Against the bushes, crying, " God ! O God, 

O my good God, He sends us help at last." 

Then, looking hard upon her, came to him 

The power to feel and to perceive. Her teeth 

Chattered, and all her limbs with shuddering failed, 

And in her threadbare shawl was wrapped a child 

That looked on him with wondering, wistful eyes. 

" I thought to freeze," the girl broke out with tears ; 

" Kind sir, kind sir," and she held out the child, 



LAURANCE. 237 



As praying him to take it ; and he did ; 

And gave to her the shawl, and swathed his charge 

In the folding's of his plaid ; and when it thrust 

Its small round face against his breast, and felt 

With small red hands for warmth, unbearable 

Pains of great pity rent his straitened heart, 

For the poor upland dwellers had been out 

Since morning dawn, at early milking-time, 

Wandering and stumbling in the drift. And now, 

Lamed with a fall, half crippled by the cold, 

Hardly prevailed his arm to drag her on, 

That ill-clad child, who yet the younger child 

Had motherly cared to shield. So toiling through 

The great white storm coming, and coming yet, 

And coming till the world confounded sat 

With all her fair familiar features gone, 

The mountains muffled in an eddying swirl, 

He led or bore them, and the little one [mourn 

Peered from her shelter, pleased ; but oft would 

The elder, "They will beat me : O my can, 

I left my can of milk upon the moor." 

And he compared her trouble with his own, 

And had no heart to speak. And yet 'twas keen ; 

It filled her to the putting down of pain 

And hunger, — what could his do more ? 

He brought 
The children to their home, and suddenly 
Regained himself, and, wondering at himself, 
That he had borne, and yet been dumb so long, 
The weary wailing of the girl, he paid 
Money to buy her pardon ; heard them say, 
bi Peace, we have feared for you ; forget the milk, 
It is no matter ! " and went forth again 
And waded in the snow, and quietly 
Considered in his patience what to do 
With all the dull remainder of his days. 



2 38 LAURANCE. 



With dusk he was at home, and felt it good 

To hear his kindred talking, for it broke 

A mocking endless echo in his soul, 

ct It is no matter ! " and he could not choose 

But mutter, though the weariness o'ercame 

His spirit, " Peace, it is no matter; peace, 

It is no matter ! " For he felt that all 

Was as it had been, and his father's heart 

Was easy, knowing not how that same day 

Hope with her tender colors and delight 

(He should not care to have him know) were dead; 

Yea, to all these, his nearest and most dear, 

It was no matter. And he heard them talk 

Of timber felled, of certain fruitful fields, 

And profitable markets. 

All for him 
Their plans, and yet the echoes swarmed and swam 
About his head, whenever there was pause ; 
; ' It is no matter ! " And his greater self 
Arose in him and fought. " It matters much, 
It matters all to these, that not to-day 
Nor ever they should know it. I will hide 
The wound : ay, hide it with a sleepless care. 
What ! shall I make these three to drink of rue 
Becanse my cup is bitter?" And he thrust 
Himself in thought away, and made his ears 
Hearken, and caused his voice, that yet did seem 
Another, to make answer, when they spoke, 
As there had been no snow-storm, and no porch, 
And no despair. 

So this went on awhile 
Until the snow had melted from the wold, 
And he, one noonday, wandering up a lane, 
Met on a turn the woman whom he loved. 
Then, even to trembling he was moved ; his speech 
Faltered ; but, when the common kindly words 



LAURANCE. 239 



Of greeting were all said, and she passed on, 
He could not bear her sweetness and his pain. 
" Muriel ! " he cried ; and when .she heard her name, 
She turned. "You know I love you," he broke out : 
She answered, "Yes," and sighed. 

" O, pardon me^ 
Pardon me," quoth the lover ; "let me rest 
In certaint}', and hear it from your mouth : 
Is he with whom I saw } r ou once of late 
To call you wife? " l{ I hope so," she replied ; 
And over all her face the rose-bloom came, 
As, thinking on that other, unaware 
Her eyes waxed tender. When he looked on her, 
Standing to answer him, with lovely shame, 
Submiss, and yet not his, a passionate, 
A quickened sense of his great impotence 
To drive away the doom got hold on him ; 
He set his teeth to force the unbearable 
Misery back, his wide-awakened eyes 
Flashed as with flame. 

And she, all overawed 
And mastered by his manhood, waited yet, 
And trembled at the deep she could not sound ; 
A passionate nature in a storm ; a heart 
Wild with a mortal pain, and in the grasp 
Of an immortal love. 

" Farewell," he said, 
Recovering words, and when she gave her hand, 
" My thanks for your good candor ; for I feel 
That it has cost you something." Then, the blush 
Yet on her face, she said : " It was your due : 
But keep this matter from your friends and kin, 
We would not have it known." Then, cold and 

proud, 
Because there leaped from under his straight lids, 



240 LAURANCE. 

And instantly was veiled, a keen surprise, — 
" He wills it, and I therefore think it well." 
Thereon they parted ; bat from that time forth, 
Whether they met on festal eve, in field, 
Or at the church, she ever bore herself 
Proudly, for she had felt a certain pain ; 
The disapproval hastily betrayed 
And quickly hidden hurt her. " 'Twas a grace," 
She thought, " to tell this man the thing he asked, 
And he rewards me with surprise. I like 
No one's surprise, and least of all bestowed 
Where he bestowed it." 

But the spring came on : 
Looking to wed in April, all her thoughts 
Grew loving ; she would fain the world had waxed 
More happy with her happiness, and oft 
Walking among the flowery woods she felt 
Their loveliness reach down into her heart, 
And knew with them the ecstasies of growth, 
The rapture that was satisfied with light, 
The pleasure of the leaf in exquisite 
Expansion, through the lovely, longed-for spring. 

And as for him — (Some narrow hearts there are 
That suffer blight when that they are fed upon, 
As something to complete their being, fails, 
And they retire into their holes and pine, 
And long restrained grow stern. But some there are 
That in a sacred want and hunger rise, 
And draw the misery home and live with it, 
And excellent in honor wait, and will 
That somewhat good should yet be found in it, 
Else wherefore were they born?) — and as for him, 
He loved her, but his peace and welfare made 
The sunshine of three lives. The cheerful grange 
Threw open wide its hospitable doors 



LAURANCE. 241 



And drew in guests for him. The garden flowers, 
Sweet budding wonders, all were set for him. 
In him the eyes at home were satisfied, 
And if he did but laugh the ear approved. 

What then? He dwelt among them as of old, 
And taught his mouth to smile. 

And time went on, 
Till on a morning, when the perfect Spring 
Rested among her leaves, he, journeying home 
After short sojourn in a neighboring town, 
Stopped at the little station on the line 
That ran between his woods ; a lonely place 
And quiet, and a woman and a child 
Got out. He noted them, bat, walking on 
Quickly, went back into the wood, impelled 
By hope, for, passing, he had seen his love, 
And she was sitting on a rustic seat 
That overlooked the line, and he desired, 
With longing indescribable, to look 
Upon her face again. And he drew near. 
She was right happy ; she was waiting there. 
He felt that she was waiting for her lord. 
She cared no whit if Laurance went or stayed, 
But answered when he spoke, and dropped her cheek 
In her fair hand. 

And he, not able 3-et 
To force himself away, and nevermore 
Behold her, gathered blossom, primrose flowers, 
And wild anemone, for man}' a clump 
Grew all about him, and the hazel rods 
Were nodding with their catkins. But he heard 
The stopping train, and felt that he must go ; 
His time was come. There was naught else to do 
Or hope for. With the blossom he drew near, 



242 LAURANCE. 



And would have had her take it from his hand ; 

But she, half lost in thought, held out her own, 

And then, remembering him and his long love, 

She said, " I thank you ; pray you now forget, 

Forget me, Laurance," and her lovely eyes 

Softened ; but he was dumb, till through the trees 

Suddenly broke upon their quietude 

The woman and her child. And Muriel said, 

" What will you ? " She made answer quick and keen, 

" Your name, my lady ; 'tis your name I want, 

Tell me your name." Not startled, not displeased, 

But with a musing sweetness on her mouth, 

As if considering in how short a while 

It would be changed, she lifted up her face 

And gave it, and the little child drew near 

And pulled her gown, and prayed her for the flowers. 

Then Laurence, not content to leave them so, 

Nor yet to wait the coming lover, spoke : 

" Your errand with this lady ? " — kt And your right 

To ask it?" she broke out with sudden heat 

And passion : " What is that to you ? Poor child ! 

Madam ! " And Muriel lifted up her face 

And looked, — they looked into each other's eyes. 

"That man who comes," the clear-voiced woman 

cried, — 
" That man with whom you think to wed so soon, — 
You must not heed him. What ! the world is full 
Of men, and some are good, and most, God knows, 
Better than he, — that I should say it ! — far 
Better." And down her face the large tears ran, 
And Muriel's wild dilated eyes looked up, 
Taking a terrible meaning from her words ; 
And Laurance stared about him, half in doubt 
If this were real, for all things were so blithe, 
And soft air tossed the little flowers about ; 
The child was singing, and the blackbirds piped, 



LAURANCE. 243 

Glad in fair sunshine. And the women both 
Were quiet, gazing in each other's eyes. 

He found his voice, and spoke : u This is not well, 
Though whom you speak of should have done you 

wrong ; 
A man that could desert and plan to wed 
Will not his purpose yield to God and right, 
Only to law. You, whom I pity so much, 
If you be come this day to urge a chum, 
You will not tell me that your claim will hold ; 
'Tis only, if I read aright, the old, 
Sorrowful, hateful story ! " 

Muriel sighed, 
With a dull patience that he marvelled at : 
" Be plain with me. I know not what to think, 
Unless you are his wife. Are you his wife? 
Be plain with me." And all too quietly, 
With running down of tears, the answer came, 
44 Ay, madam, ay ! the worse for him and me." 
Then Muriel heard her lover's foot anear, 
And cried upon him with a bitter cry, 
Sharp and despairing. And those two stood back, 
With such affright and violent anger stirred, 
He broke from out the thicket to her side, 
Not knowing. But, her hands before her face, 
She sat ; and, stepping close, that woman came 
And faced him. Then said Muriel, ct O nay heart, 
Herbert ! " — and he was dumb, and ground his teeth, 
And lifted up his hand and looked at it, 
And at the woman ; but a man was there 
Who whirled her from her place, and thrust himself 
Between them ; he was strong, — a stalwart man : 
And Herbert, thinking on it, knew his name, [strive 
kl What good," quoth he, " though you and I should 
And wrestle all this April day? A word. 
And not a blow, is what these women want : 



244 LAURANCE. 



Master yourself, and say it." But he, weak 
With passion and great anguish, flung himself 
Upon the seat and cried, " O lost, my love ! 
O Muriel, Muriel ! " And the woman spoke, 
" Sir, 'twas an evil day you wed with me ; 
And you were young ; I know it, sir, right well. 
Sir, I have worked ; I have not troubled yon, 
Not for myself, not for your child. I know 
We are not equal." " Hold ! " he cried ; "have done ; 
Your still, tame words are worse than hate or scorn. 
Get from me ! Ay, my wife, my wife, indeed ! 
All's done. You hear it, Muriel ; if you can, 
O sweet, forgive me." 

Then the woman moved 
Slowly away ; her little singing child 
Went in her wake ; and Muriel dropped her hands, 
And sat before these two that loved her so, 
Mute and unheeding. There were angiy words, 
She knew, but yet she could not hear the words ; 
And afterwards the man she loved stooped down 
And kissed her forehead once, and then withdrew 
To look at her, and with a gesture pray 
Her pardon. And she tried to speak, but failed, 
And presently, and soon, O, — he was gone. 

She heard him go, and Laurance, still as stone, 
Remained beside her ; and she put her hand 
Before her face again, and afterward 
She heard a voice, as if a long way off, 
Some one entreated, but she could not heed. 
Thereon he drew her hand away, and raised 
Her passive from her seat. So then she knew 
That he would have her go with him, go home, — 
It was not far to go, — a dreary home. 
A crippled aunt, of birth and lineage high, 
Had, in her love, and for a place and home, 
Married the stern old rector ; and the girl 



LAURANCE. 245 



Dwelt with them : she was orphaned, — had 110 kin 
Nearer than they. And Laurance brought her in, 
And spared to her the telling of this woe. 
He sought her kindred where they sat apart, 
And laid before. them all the cruel thing, 
As he had seen it. After, he retired ; 
And restless, and not master of himself, 
He day and night haunted the rectory lanes ; 
And all things, even to the. spreading out 
Of leaves, their nickering shadows on the ground, 
Or sailing of the slow, white cloud, or peace 
And glory and great light on mountain heads, — 
. All things were leagued against him, ministered 
By likeness or by contrast to his love. 
But what was that to Muriel, though her peace 
He would have purchased for her with all prayers, 
And costly, passionate, despairing tears? 
O, what to her that he should find it worse 
To bear her life's undoing than his own? 
She let him see her, and she made no moan, 
But talked full calmly of indifferent things, 
Which, when he heard, and marked the faded eyes 
And lovely wasted cheek, he started up 
With " This I cannot bear ! " and shamed to feel 
His manhood giving way, and utterly 
Subdued by her sweet patience and his pain, 
Made haste and from the window sprang, and paced, 
Battling and chiding with himself, the maze. 
She suffered, and he could not make her weL 
For all his loving ; — he was naught to her. 
And now his passionate nature, set astir, 
Fought with the pain that could not be endured ; 
And like a wild thing, suddenly aware 
That it is caged, which flings and bruises all 
Its body at the bars, he rose, and raged 



246 LAURANCE. 

Against the misery : then he made all worse 
With tears. But when he came to her again, 
AYilling to talk as they had talked before, 
She sighed, and said, with that strange quietness, 
k, I know you have been crying : " and she bent 
Her own fair head and wept. 

She felt the cold — 
The freezing cold that deadened all her life — 
Give way a little ; for this passionate 
Sorrow, and all for her, relieved her heart, 
And brought some natural warmth, some natural 
tears. 

in. 

And after that, though oft he sought her door, 

He might not see her. First they said to him, 

" She is not well ;" and a'tenvards, " Her wish 

Is ever to be quiet." Then in haste 

They took her from the place, because so fast 

'She faded. As for him, — though youth and strength 

Can bear the weight as of a worid, at last 

The burden of it tells, — he heard it said, 

When autumn came, " The poor sweet thing will die : 

That shock was mortal." And he cared no more 

To hide, if yet he could have hidden, the blight 

That was laying waste his heart. He journeyed south 

To Devon, where she dwelt with other kin, 

Good, kindly women ; and he wrote to them, 

Praying that he might see her ere she died. 

So in her patience she permitted him 

To be about her, for it eased his heart ; 

And as for her that was to die so soon, 

What did it signify? She let him weep 

Some passionate tears beside her couch, she spoke 

Pitying words, and then they made him go. 



LAURANCE. 247 



It was enough, they said ; her time was short, 
And he had seen her. He had seen, and felt 
The bitterness of death ; but he went home, 
Being satisfied in that great longing now, 
And able to endure what might befall. 

And Muriel lay, and faded with the year ; 
She lay at the door of death, that opened not 
To take her in ; for when the days once more 
Began a little to increase, she felt, — 
And it was sweet to her, she was so young, — 
She felt a longing for the time of flowers, 
And dreamed that she was walking in that wood 
With her two feet among the primroses. 

Then when the violet opened, she rose up 
And walked. The tender leaf and tender light 
Did solace her ; but she was white and wan, 
Tl e shadow of that Muriel in the wood 
Who listened to those deadly words. 

And now 
Empurpled seas began to blush and bloom, 
Doves made sweet moaning, and the guelder-rose 
In a great stillness dropped, and ever dropped, 
Her wealth about her feet, and there it lay, 
And drifted not at all. The lilac spread 
Odorous essence round her ; and full oft, 
When Muriel felt the warmth her pulses cheer, 
She, faded, sat among the May- tide bloom, 
And with a reverent quiet in her soul, 
Took back — it was His will — her time, and sat 
Learning again to live. 

Thus as she sat 
Upon a day, she was aware of one 
Who at a distance marked her. This again 
Another day, and she was vexed, for yet 



248 LAU RANGE. 



She longed for quiet ; but she heard a foot 

Pass once again, and beckoned through the trees. 

'■ Laurance ! " And all impatient of unrest 

And strife, a}', even of the sight of them, 

When he drew near, with tired, tired lips, 

As if her soul upbraided him, she said, 

4 ' Why have you done this thing?" He answered 

her, 
" I am not always master in the fight : 
I could not help it." 

" What ! " she sighed, " not yet ! 
O, I am sorry ; " and she talked to him 
As one who looked to live, imploring him, — 
" Try to forget me. Let your fancy dwell 
Elsewhere, nor me enrich with it so long ; 
It wearies me to think of this your love. 
Forget me ! " 

He made answer, " I will try : 
The task will take me all my life to learn, 
O, were it learned, I know not how to live ; 
This pain is part of life and being now, — 
It is myself ; but yet — but I will try." 
Then she spoke friendly to him, — of his home, 
His father, and the old, brave, loving folk ; 
She bade him think of them. And not her words, 
But having seen her, satisfied his heart. 
He left her, and went home to live his life, 
And all the summer heard it said of her, 
" Yet, she grows stronger ; " but when autumn came 
Again she drooped. 

A bitter thing it is 
To lose at once the lover and the love ; 
For who receiveth not may yet keep life 
In the spirit with bestowal. But for her, 
This Muriel, all was gone. The man she loved, 



XAURANCE, 



249 



Not only from her present had withdrawn, 
But from her past, and there was no such man, 
There never had been. 

He was not as one 
Who takes love in, like some sweet bird, and holds 
The winged fluttering stranger to his breast, 
Till, after transient stay, ail unaware 
It leaves him : it has flown. No ; this may live 
In memory, — loved till death. He was not vile ; 
For who by choice would part with that pure bird, 
And lose the exaltation of its song? 
He had not strength of will to keep it fast, 
Nor warmth of heart to keep it warm, nor life 
Of thought to make the echo sound for him 
After the song was done. Pity that man : 
His music is all flown, and he forgets 
The sweetness of it, till at last he thinks 
'Twas no great matter. But he was not vile, 
Only a thing to pity most in man, 
Weak, — 011I3- poor, and, if he knew it, undone. 
But Herbert ! When she mused on it, her soul 
Would fain have hidden him for evermore, 
Even from herself, — so pure of speech, so frank, 
So full of household kindness. Ah, so good 
And true ! A little, she had sometimes thought, 
Despondent for himself, but strong of faith 
In God, and faith in her, this man had seemed. 

Ay, he was gone ! and she whom he had wed, 
As Muriel learned, was sick, was poor, was sad. 
And Muriel wrote to comfort her, and send, 
From her small store, money to help her need, 
With, " Pray you keep it secret," Then the whole 
Of the cruel tale was told. 



250 



LAURANCE. 



What more ? She died. 
Her kin, profuse of thanks, not bitterly, 
Wrote of the end. " Our sister fain had seen 
Her husband ; prayed him sore to come. But no. 
And then she prayed him that he would forgive, 
Madam, her breaking of the truth to you. 
Dear Madam, he was angry, yet we think 
He might have let her see, before she died, 
The words she wanted, but he did not write 
Till she was gone, — ' I neither can forgive, 
Nor would I if I could.' " 

u Patience, my heart! 
And this, then, is the man I loved ! " 

But yet 
He sought a lower level, for he wrote, 
Telling the story with a different hue, — 
Telling of freedom. He desired to come, 
" For now," said he, " love, may all be well." 
And she rose up against it iu her soul, 
For she despised him. And with passionate tears 
Of shame, she wrote, and only wrote these words, — > 
" Herbert, I will not see you." 

Then she drooped 
Again ; it is so bitter to despise ; 
And all her strength, when autumn leaves down 

dropped, 
Fell from her. " Ah ! " she thought, "I rose up 

once, 
I cannot rise up now ; here is the end." 
And all her kinsfolk thought, "It is the end." 

But when that other heard, "It is the end," 
His heart was sick, and he, as by a power 
Far stronger than himself, was driven to her. 
Reason rebelled against it, but his will 



LAURANCE. 251 



Required it of him with a craving strong 
As life, and passionate though hopeless pain 

She, when she saw his face, considered him 

Full quietly, let all excuses pass 

ISot answered, and considered yet again. 

i " He had heard that she was sick ; what could he do 
But come, and ask her pardon that he came ? " 
What eould he do, indeed? — a weak white girl 
Held all his heartstrings in her small white hand; 
His youth, and power, and majesty were hers, 
And not his own. 

She looked, and pitied him, 
Then spoke : " He loves me with a love that lasts. 
Ah me ! that I might get away from it, 
Or, better, hear it said that love is not, 
And then I could have rest. My time is short, 
I think, — so short." And roused against himself 
In stormy wrath, that it should be his doom 
Her to disquiet whom he loved, — ay, her 
For whom he would have given all his rest, 
If there were any left to give, — he took 
Her words up bravely, promising once more 
Absence, and praying pardon ; but some tears 
Dropped quietly upon her cheek. 

"Remain," 
She said, " for there is something to be told, 
Some words that you must hear. 

u And first, hear this : 
God has been good to me ; you must not think 
That I despair. There is a quiet time 
Like evening in my soul. I have no heart, 
For cruel Herbert killed it long ago, 
And death strides on. Sit, then, and give your mind 
To listen, and your eyes to look at me. 



252 LAURANCE. 



Look at my face, Laurance, bow white it is ; 
Look at my hand, — my beauty is all gone." 
And Laurance lifted up his eyes ; he looked, 
But answered, from their deeps that held no doubt, 
Far otherwise than she had willed : they said, 
44 Lovelier than ever." 

Yet her words went on, 
Cold, and so quiet, t4 I have suffered much, 
And I would fain that none who care forme 
Should suffer a like pang that I can spare. 
Therefore," said she, and not at all could blush, 
44 I have brought my mind of late to think of this : 
That since your life is spoilt (not willingly, 
My God, not willingly by me), 'twere well 
To give you choice of griefs. 

" Were it not best 
To weep for a dead love, and afterwards 
Be comforted the sooner, that she died 
Remote, and left not in your house and life 
Aught to remind you? That indeed were best. 
But were it best to weep for a dead wife, 
And let the sorrow spend and satisfy 
Itself with all expression, and so end? 
I think not so ; but if for you 'tis best, 
Then, — do not answer with too sudden words : 
It matters much to you ; not much, not much 
To me, — then truly I will die your wife ; 
I will marry you." 

What was he like to say. 
But, overcome with love and tears, to choose 
The keener sorrow, — take it to his heart, 
Cherish it. make it part of him, and watch 
Those eyes, that were his light, till they should close ? 

He answered her with eager, faltering words, 

44 1 choose, — my heart is yours, — die in my arms." 



LAURA NCR. 253 



But was it well? Truly, at first, for him 

It was not well : he saw her fade, and cried, 

' k When may this be?" She answered, "When you 

will," 
And eared not much, for very faint she grew, 
Tired and cold. Oft in her soul she thought, 
"If I could slip away before the ring 
Is on my hand, it were a blessed lot 
For both, — a blessed thing for him, and me." 
But it was not so ; for the day had come, — 
Was over : days and months had come, and Death, — 
Within whose shadow she had lain, which made 
Earth and its loves, and even its bitterness, 
Indifferent, — Death withdrew himself, and life 
Woke up, and found that it was folded fast, 
Drawn to another life forever more. 
O, what a waking ! After it there came 
Great silence. She got up once more, in spring, 
And walked, but not alone, among the flowers. 
She thought within herself, t; What have I done? 
How shall I do the rest?" And he, who felt 
Her inmost thought, was silent even as she. [him, 
ww What have we done?" she thought. But as for 
When she began to look him in the face, 
Considering, "Thus and thus his features are," 
For she had never thought on them before, 
She read their grave repose aright. She knew 
That in the stronghold of his heart, held back, 
Hidden reserves of measureless content 
Kept house with happy thought, for her sake mute 
Most patient Muriel ! when he brought her home, 
She took the place they gave her, — strove to please 
His kin, and did not fail ; but yet thought on, 
'" What have I done? how shali I do the rest? 
Ah ! so contented, Laurance. with this wife 



254 LAURANCE. 



That loves you not, for all the stateliiiess 

And grandeur of your manhood, and the deeps 
In your blue eyes," And after that awhile 
She rested from such thinking, put it by 
And waited. She had thought on death before: 
But no, this Muriel was not yet to die ; 
And when she saw her little tender babe, 
She felt how much the happy days of life 
Outweigh the sorrowful. A tiny thing, 
Whom when it slept the lovely mother nursed 
With reverent love, whom when it woke, she fed 
And wondered at, and lost herself in long 
Rapture of watching, and contentment deep. 

Once while she sat, this babe upon her knee, 
Her husband and his father standing nigh, 
About to ride, the grandmother, all pride 
And consequence, so deep in learned talk 
Of infants, and their little ways and wiles, 
Broke off to say, " I never saw a babe 
So like its father." And the thought was new 
To Muriel ; she looked up, and when she looked, 
Her husband smiled. And she, the lovely bloom 
Flushing her face, would fain he had not known, 
Nor noticed her surprise. But he did know ; 
Yet there was pleasure in his smile, and love 
Tender and strong. He kissed her, kissed his babe, 
With " Goody, you are left in charge, take care." — ■ 
" As if I needed telling," quoth the dame ; 
And they were gone. 

Then Muriel, lost in thought, 
Gazed ; and the grandmother, with open pride, 
Tended the lovely pair ; till Muriel said, 
" Is she so like? Dear granny, get me now 
The picture that his father has ; " and soon 
The old woman put it in her hand. 



LAURANCE. 255 



The wife, 
Considering it with deep and strange delight, 
Forgot for once her babe, and looked and learned. 

A mouth for mastery and manful work, 

A certain brooding sweetness in the eyes, 

A brow, the harbor of grave thought, and hair 

Saxon of hue. She conned ; then blushed again, 

Remembering now, when she had looked on him, 

The sudden radiance of her husband's smile. 

But Muriel did not send the picture back ; 
She kept it ; while her beauty and her babe 
Flourished together, and in health and peace 
She lived. 

Her husband never said to her, 
" Love, are you happy?" never said to her, 
" Sweet, do you love me?" and at first, whene'er 
They rode together in the lanes, and paused, 
Stopping their horses, when the day was hot, 
In the shadow of a tree, to watch the clouds, 
Ruffled in drifting on the jagged rocks 
That topped the mountains, — when she sat by him, 
Withdrawn at even while the summer stars 
Came starting out of nothing, as new made, 
She felt a little trouble, and a wish 
That he would yet keep silence, and he did. 
That one reserve he would not touch, but still 
Respected. 

Muriel grew more brave in time, 
And talked at ease, and felt disquietude 
Fade. And another child was given to her. 

" Now we shall do," the old great grandsire cried, 
" For this is the right sort, a boy." " Fie, fie," 
Quoth the good dame ; " but never heed you, love, 
He thinks them both as right as right can be." 



5 6 LAURANCE. 



But Laurance went from home, ere yet the boy 
Was three weeks old. It fretted him to go, 
But yet he said, " I must : " and she was left 
Much with the kindly dame, whose gentle care 
AVas like a mother's ; and the two could talk 
Sweetly, for all the difference in their years. 

But unaware, the wife betrayed a wish 

That she had known why Laurance left her thus. 

" Ay, love," the dame made answer ; " for he said, 

i Goody,' before he left, ' if Muriel ask 

No question, tell her naught ; but if she let 

Any disquietude appear to you, 

Say what you know.' " " What?" Muriel said, and 

laughed. 
'* I ask, then." 

" Child, it is that your old love, 
Some two months past, was here. Nay, never start : 
He's gone. He came, our Laurance met him near ; 
He said that he was going over seas, 
4 And might I see your wife this only once, 
And get her pardon ? ' " 

" Mercy ! " Muriel cried, 
" But Laurance does not wish it?" 

41 Nay, now, nay," 
Quoth the good dame. 

" I cannot," Muriel cried ; 
" He does not, surely, think I should." 

"Not he," 
The kind old woman said, right soothingly. 
" Does not he ever know, love, ever do 
What you like best?" 

And Muriel, trembling yet, 
Agreed. "I heard him say," the dame went on, 



LAURANCE. 257 



u For I was with him when they met that day, 
' It would not be agreeable to my wife.' " 

Then Muriel, pondering, — " And he said no more? 
You think he did not add, ' Nor to myself? ' " 
And with her soft, calm, inward voice, the dame 
Unruffled answered, " No, sweetheart, not he : 
What need he care?" "And why not?" Muriel cried, 
Longing to hear the answer. "O, he knows, 
He knows, love, very well : " — with that she smiled. 
" Bless your fair face, you have not really thought 
He did not know you loved him ? " 

Muriel said, 
" He never told me, good}', that he knew." 
" Well," quoth the dame, " but it may chance, nvy 

dear, 
That he thinks best to let old troubles sleep : 
Why need to rouse them? You are happy, sure? 
But if one asks, w Art happy?' why it sets 
The thoughts a-working. No, say I, let love, 
Let peace and happy folk alone. 

" He said, 
' It would not be agreeable to m} r wife.' 
And he went on to add, in course of time 
That he would ask you, when it suited you, 
To write a few kind words." 

" Yes," Muriel said, 
'•• I can do that." 

"So Laurance went, }~ou see," 
The soft voice added, " to take down that child. 
Laurance had written oft about the child, 
And now, at last, the father made it known 
He could not take him. He has lost, they say, 
His money, with much gambling ; now he wants 



258 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

To lead a good, true, working life. He wrote, 
And let this so be seen, that Laurance went 
And took the child, and took the money down 
To pay." 

And Muriel found her talking sweet, 
And asked once more, the rather that she longed 
To speak again of Laurance, t4 And you think 
He knows I love him?" 

"Ay, good sooth, he knows 
No fear ; but he is like his father, love. 
II is father never asked my pretty child 
One prying question ; took her as she was ; 
Trusted her ; she has told me so : he knew 
A woman's nature. Laurance is the same. 
He knows you love him ; but he will not speak ; 
No, never. Some men are such gentlemen ! " 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

WITH AN INTRODUCTORY SONG OF EVENING, AND A 
CONCLUDING SONG OF THE EARLY DAY. 



INTRODUCTORY. 

( Old English Manner.) 

APPRENTICED. 

" Come out and hear the waters shoot, the owlet hoot, 
the owlet hoot ; 
Yon crescent moon, a golden boat, hangs dim be- 
hind the tree, O ! 
The dropping thorn makes white the grass, O sweetest 
lass, and sweetest lass ; 
Come out and smell the ricks of hay adown the 
croft with me, 01" 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 259 

• 

" My granny nods before her wheel, and drops her 
reel, and drops her reel ; 
My father with his crony talks as gay as gay can 
be, ! 
But all the milk is yet to skim, ere light wax dim, 
ere light wax dim ; 
How can I step adown the croft, 1113' 'prentice lad, 
with thee, ! " 

" And must ye bide, yet waiting's long, and love is 
strong, and love is strong ; 
And O ! had I but served the time, that takes so 
long to flee, O ! 
And thou, my lass, by morning's light wast all in 
white, wast all in white, 
And parson stood within the rails, a-marrying me 
and thee, ! " 



THE FIRST WATCH. 



O, I would tell you more, but I am tired ; 

For I have longed, and I have had my will ; 
I pleaded in my spirit, I desired : 

w ' Ah ! let me only see him, and be still 
All my days after." 

Rock, and rock, and rock, 
Over the falling, rising watery world, 

Sail, beautiful ship, along the leaping main ; 
The chirping land-birds follow flock on flock 

To light on a warmer plain. 
White as weaned lambs the little wavelets curled, 



2 6o SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

* 

Fall over in harmless play, 

As these do far away ; 
Sail, bird of doom, along the shimmering sea, 
All under thy broad wings that overshadow thee. 



I am so tired, 
If I would comfort me, I know not how, 
For I have seen thee, lad, as I desired, 
And I have nothing left to long for now. 

Nothing at all. And did I wait for thee, 

Often and often, while the light grew dim, 
And through the lilac branches 1 could see, 
Under a saffron sky, the purple rim 
O' the heaving moorland? Ay. And then would 

float 
Up from behind — as it were a golden boat, 
Freighted with fancies, all o' the wonder of life, 
Love — such a slender moon, going up and up, 
Waxing so fast from night to night, 
And swelling like an orange flower-bud, bright, 

Fated, methought, to round as to a golden cup, 
And hold to my two lips life's best of wine. 
Most beautiful crescent moon, 
Ship of the sky ! 
Across the unfurrowed reaches sailing high. 
Methought that it would come my way full soon, 
Laden with blessings that were all, all mine, — 
A golden ship, with balm and spiceries rife, 
That ere its day was done should hear thee call me 
wife. 

in. 

All over ! the celestial sign hath failed ; 

The orange flower-bud shuts ; the ship hath sailed, 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 261 

And sunk behind the long low-lying hills. 
The love that fed on daily kisses clieth ; 
The love kept warm by nearness lieth, 
Wounded and wan ; 

The love hope nourished bitter tears distils, 
And faints with nought to feed upon. 
Only there stirreth very deep below 
The hidden beating slow, 

And the blind yearning, and the long-drawn breath 
Of the love that conquers death. 

IV, 

Had we not loved full long, and lost all fear, 
My ever, my only dear? 
Yes ; and I saw thee start upon thy wa}\ 
So sure that we should meet 
Upon our trysting-day. 
And even absence then to me was sweet, 
Because it brought me time to brood 
Upon thy dearness in the solitude. 
But ah ! to stay, and stay, 
And let that moon of April wane itself away, 

And let the lovely May 
Make ready all her buds for June ; 
And let the glossy finch forego her tune 
That she brought with her in the spring, 
And nevermore, I think, to me can sing ; 
And then to lead thee home another bride, 
In the sultry summer-tide, 
And all forget me save for shame full sore, 
That made thee pray me, absent, " See my face no 
more." 

v. 
O hard, most hard ! But while my fretted heart, 
Shut out, shut down, and full of pain, 
Sobbed to itself apart, 
Ached to itself in vain. 



262 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 



One came who loveth me 
As I love thee. . . . 
And let my God remember him for this, 
As I do hope He will forget thy kiss, 
Nor visit on thy stately head 
Aught that thy mouth hath sworn, or thy two eyes 

have said. . . . 
He came, and it was dark. He came, and sighed 
Because he knew the sorrow, — whispering low, 
And fast, and thick, as one that speaks by rote : 
" The vessel lieth in the river reach, 

A mile above the beach, 
And she will sail at the turning o' the tide." 
He said, " I have a boat, 
And were it good to go, 
And unbeholden in the vessel's wake, 
Look on the man thou lovedst, and forgive, 
As he embarks, a shameful fugitive. 
Come, then, with me." 

VI. 

O, how he sighed ! The little stars did wink, 
And it was very dark. I gave my hand, — 
He led me out across the pasture land, 
And through the narrow croft, 
Down to the river's brink. 
When thou wast full in spring, thou little sleepy 

thing, 
The yellow flags that broidered thee would stand 
Up to their chins in water, and full oft 
We pulled them and the other shining flowers, 

That all are gone to-day : 
We two, that had so many things to say, 
So many hopes to render clear : 
And they are all gone after thee, my dear, — 
Gone after those sweet hours, 



SOA'GS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 263 

That tender light, that balmy rain ; 
Gone "asa wind that passeth away, 
And cometh not again." 

VII. 

I only saw the stars, — I could not see 

The river, — and they seemed to lie 
And far below as the other stars were high. 

I trembled like a thing about to die : 
Tt was so awful 'neath the majesty 
Of that great costal height, that overhung 
The blackness at our feet, 
Unseen to fleet and fleet, 
The flocking stars among, 
And only hear the dipping of the oar, 
And the small wave's caressing of the darksome shore, 

VIII. 

Less real it was than any dream. 
Ah me ! to hear the bending willows shiver, 
As we shot quickly from the silent river, 

And felt the swaying and the flow 
That bore us down the deeper, wider stream, 

Whereto its nameless waters go : 
O ! I shall always, when I shut mine eyes, 
See that weird sight again ; 
The lights from anchored vessels hung ; 
The phantom moon, that sprung 
Suddenly up in dim and angry wise 

From the rim o' the moaning main, 
And touched with elfin light 
The two long oars whereby we made our flight 
Along the reaches of the night ; 
Then furrowed up a lowering cloud, 
Went in, and left us darker than before, 
To feel our way as the midnight watches wore, 



264 SOJVGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

And lie in her lee, with mournful faces bowed, 
That should receive and bear with her away 
The brightest portion of my sunniest day, — 
The laughter of the land, the sweetness of the shore. 

IX. 

And I beheld thee : saw the lantern flash 

Down on thy face when thou didst climb the side. 

And thou wert pale, pale as the patient bride 

That followed : both a little sad, 
Leaving of home and kin. Thy courage glad, 

That once did bear thee on, 
That brow of thine had lost ; the fervor rash 
Of unforeboding youth thou hadst foregone. 
O, what a little moment, what a crumb 
Of comfort for a heart to feed upon ! 

And that was all its sum : 

A glimpse, and not a meeting, — 

A drawing near by night, 
To sigh to thee an unacknowledged greeting, 
And all between the flashing of a light 
And its retreating. 

x. 

Then after, ere she spread her wafting wings, 
The ship, — and weighed her anchor to depart, 
We stole from her dark lee, like guilty things ; 

And there was silence in my heart, 
And silence in the upper and the nether deep. 

O sleep ! O sleep ! 
Do not forget me. Sometimes come and sweep, 
Now I have nothing left, thy healing hand 
Over the lids that crave thy visits bland, 

Thou kind, thou comforting one : 

For I have seen his face, as I desired, 

And all my story is done. 
O, I am tired \ 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 265 



THE MIDDLE WATCH. 
1. 

I woke in the night, and the darkness was heavy 
and deep ; 
1 had known it was dark in my sleep, 
And I rose and looked out, 
And the fathomless vault was all sparkling, set thick 

round about 
With the ancient inhabiters silent, and wheeling too 

far 
For man's heart, like a voyaging frigate to sail, 
where remote 
In the sheeu of their glory they float, 
Or man's soul, like a bird, to fly near, of their beams 
to partake, 
And dazed in their wake, 
Drink day that is born of a star. 
I murmured, n Remoteness and greatness, how deep 
you are set, 
How afar in the rim of the whole ; 
You know nothing of me, nor of man, nor of earth, 

O, nor yet 
Of our light-bearer, — drawing the marvellous moons 
as they roll, 
Of our regent, the sun. 
I look on you trembling, and think, in the dark with 

my soul, 
" How small is our place 'mid the kingdoms and 
nations of God : 
These are greater than we, every one." 
And there falls a great fear and a dread corneth 
over, that cries, 



266 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

" O my hope ! Is there any mistake? 
Did He speak? Did I hear? Did I listen aright, if 

He spake? 
Did I answer Him duly? for surely I now am awake, 

If never I wotae until now." 
And a light, baffling wind, that leads no whither, 

plays on my brow. 
As a sleep, I must think on my day, of my path as 

untrod, 
Or troMen in dreams, in a dreamland whose coasts 

are a doubt ; 
Whose countries recede from my thoughts, as they 
grope round about, 
And vanish, and tell me not how. 
Be kind to our darkness, O Fashioner, dwelling in 
light, 
And feeding the lamps of the sky ; 
Look down upon this one, and let it be sweet in Thy 
sight, 
I pray Thee, to-night. 

watch whom Thou madest to dwell on its soil, 

Thou Most High ! 
For this is a world full of sorrow (there ma}' be but 

one) ; 
Keep watch o'er its dust, else Thy children for aye 

are undone, 
For this is a world where we die. 

ii. 

With that, a still voice in my spirit that moved and 
that yearned 
(There fell a great calm while it spake) , 

1 had heard it ere while, but the noises of life are so 

loud, 
That sometimes it dies in the cry of the street and 
the crowd : 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 267 

To the simple it cometh, — the child, or asleep, or 

awake, 
And they know not from whence ; of its nature the 

wise never learned 
By his wisdom ; its secret the worker ne'er earned 
By his toil ; and the rich among men never bought 
with his gold; 
Nor the times of its visiting monarchs controlled, 

Nor the jester put down with his jeers 
(For it moves where it will) , nor its season the 
aged discerned 
By thought, in the ripeness of years. 

O elder than reason, and stronger than will ! 
A voice, when the dark world is still : 

Whence cometh it? Father Immortal, Thou know- 

est ! and we, — 
We are sure of that witness, that sense which is sent 

us of Thee ; 
For it moves, and it yearns in its fellowship mighty 

and dread, 
And let down to our hearts it is touched by the tears 

that we shed ; 
It is more than all meanings, and over all strife ; 
On its tongue are the laws of our life, 
And it counts up the times of the dead. 



I will fear you, O stars, never more. 
I have felt it ! Go on, while the world is asleep. 
Golden islands, fast moored in God's infinite deep. 
Hark, hark to the words of sweet fashion, the harp- 

ings of yore ! 
How they sang to Him, seer and saint, in the far 
away lands : 
" The heavens are the work of Thy hands ; 



268 SOJVGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

The}' shall perish, but Thou shalt endure ; 
Yea, they all shall wax old, — 
But Thy throne is established, O God, and Thy years 
are made sure ; 
They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure, — 
They shall pass like a tale that is told." 

Doth He answer, the Ancient of Days ? 
Will He speak in the tongue and the fashion of 
meu ? 
Hist ! hist ! while the heaven-hung multitudes shine 

in His praise, 
(His language of old.) Nay, He spoke with them 
first ; it was then 
They lifted their eyes to His throne : 
" They shall call on Me, ' Thou art our Father, our 

God, Thou alone ! ' 
For I made them, I led them in deserts and desolate 
ways ; 
I have found them a Ransom Divine ; 
I have loved them with love everlasting, the children 
of men ; 
I swear by Myself, they are Mine." 



THE MORNING WATCH. 

THE COMING IN OF THE " MERMAIDEN." 

The moon is bleached as white as wool : 

And just dropping under ; 
Every star is gone but three, 

And they hang far asunder, — 
There's a sea-ghost all in gray, 

A t>ill shape of wonder ! 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 269 

I am not satisfied with sleep, — 

The night is not ended. 
But look how the sea-ghost comes, 

With wan skirts extended, 
Stealing up in this weird hour, 

When light and dark are blended. 

A vessel ! To the old pier-end 
Her happy course she's keeping ; 

I heard them name her yesterday : 
Some were pale with weeping ; 

Some with their heart-hunger sighed ; 
She's in, — and they are sleeping. 

O ! now with fancied greetings blest, 
They comfort their long aching : 

The sea of sleep hath borne to them 
What would not come with waking, 

And the dreams shall most be true 
In their blissful breaking. 

The stars are gone, the rose-bloom comes,— 

No blush of maid is sweeter ; 
The red sun, half way out of bed, 

Shall be the first to greet her. 
None tell the news, yet sleepers wake, 

And rise, and run to meet her. 

Their lost they have, they hold ; from pain 

A keener bliss they borrow. 
How natural is joy, my heart ! 

How easy after sorrow ! 
For once, the best is come that hope 

Promised them " to-morrow." 



270 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 



CONCLUDING SONG OF DAWN. 

{Old English Manner.) 

A MORN OF MAY. 

All the clouds about the sun lay up in golden 

creases 
(Merry rings the maiden's voice that sings at dawn 

of day) ; 
Lambkins woke and skipped around to dry their 

dewy fleeces. 
So sweetly as she carolled, all on a morn of May. 

Quoth the Sergeant, " Here I'll halt ; here's wine of 

joy for drinking ; 
To my heart she sets her hand, and in the strings 

doth play ; 
All among the daffodils, and fairer to my thinking, 
And fresh as milk and roses, she sits this morn of 

May." 

Quoth the Sergeant, " Work is work, but any ye 

might make me, 
If I worked for you, dear lass, I'd count my holiday. 
I'm 3-our slave for good and all, an' if ye will but 

take me, 
So sweetly as ye carol upon this morn of May." 

" Medals count for worth," quoth she, " and scars 

are won for honor ; 
But a slave an' if ye be, kind wooer, go your way." 
All the nodding daffodils woke up and laughed upon 

her, 
O ! sweetly did she carol, all on that morn of May. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 271 

Gladsome leaves upon the bough, they fluttered fast 

and faster. 
Fretting brook, till he would speak, did chide the 

dull delay : 
" Beauty ! when I said a slave, I think I meant a 

master ; 
So sweetly as ye carol all on this mom of May. 

" Lass, I love you ! Love is strong, and some men's 
hearts are tender." 

Far she sought o'er wood and wold, but found not 
aught to say ; 

Mounting lark nor mantling cloud would any coun- 
sel render, 

Though sweetly she had carolled upon that morn of 
May. 

Shy, she sought the wooer's face, and deemed the 

wooing mended ; 
Proper man he was, good sooth, and one would have 

his way : 
So the lass was made a wife, and so the song was 

ended. 
O ! sweetlv she did carol all on that morn of May. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

BOOK I. 



Niloiya said to Noah, " What aileth thee, 

My master, unto whom is my desire, 

The father of my sons?" He answered her, 

tk Mother of many children, I have heard 

The Voice again." " Ah, me ! " she saith, " ah, me ! 

What spake it?" and with that Niloiya sighed. 



272 A STORY OF DOOM. 



This when the Master-builder heard, his heart 
Was sad in him, the while he sat at home 
And rested after toil. The steady rap 
O' the shipwright's hammer sounding up the vale 
Did seem to mock him ; but her distaff down 
Niloiya laid, and to the doorplace went, 
Parted the purple covering seemly hung 
Before it, and let in the crimson light 
Of the descending sun. Then looked he forth, — 
Looked, and beheld the hollow where the ark 
Was a-preparing ; where the dew distilled 
All night from leaves of old lign aloe-trees, 
Upon the gliding river ; where the palm, 
The almug, and the gophir shot their heads 
Into the crimson brecle that dyed the world : 
And lo ! he marked — unwieldy, dark, and huge— 
The ship, his glory and his grief, — too vast 
For that still river's floating, — building far 
From mightier streams, amid the pastoral dells 
Of shepherd kings. 

Niloiya spake again : 
"What said the Voice, tbou well-beloved man?" 
He, laboring with his thought that troubled him, 
Spoke on behalf of God : ct Behold," said he, 
" A little handful of unlovely dust 
He fashioned to a lordly grace, and when 
He laughed upon its beauty, it waxed warm, 
And with His breath awoke a living soul. 

" Shall not the Fashioner command His work? 
And who am I, that, if He whisper, 4 Rise, 
Go forth upon Mine errand,' should reply, 
1 Lord, God, I love the woman and her sons, — 
I love not scorning ; I beseech Thee, God, 
Have me excused.'" 



A STORY OF DOOM. 273 

She answered him, " Tell on." 
And he continuing, reasoned with his soul : 
" What though I, — like some goodly lama sunk 
In meadow grass, eating her way at ease, 
Unseen of them that pass, and asking not 
A wider prospect than of yellow flowers 
That nod above her head — should lay me down, 
And willingly forget this high behest, 
There should be yet no tarrying. Furthermore, 
Though I went forth to cry against the doom, 
Earth crieth louder, and she draws it down : 
It hangeth balanced over us ; she crieth, 
And it shall fall. O ! as for me, my life 
Is bitter, looking onward, for I know 
That in the fulness of the time shall dawn 
That day : my preaching shall not bring forth fruit, 
Though for its sake I leave thee. I shall float 
Upon the abhorred sea, that mankind hate, 
With thee and thine." 

She answered : "God forbid ! 
For, sir, though men be evil, yet the deep 
They dread, and at the last will surely turn 
To Him, and He, long-suffering, will forgive, 
And chide the waters back to their abyss, 
To cover the pits where doleful creatures feed. 
Sir, I am much afraid ; I would not hear 
Of riding on the waters : look you, sir, 
Better it were to die with you by hand 
Of them that hate us, than to live, ah me ! 
Rolling among the furrows of the unquiet, 
Unconsecrate, unfriendly, dreadful sea." 

He saith again : "I pray thee, woman, peace, 
For thou wilt enter, when that day appears, 
The fateful ship." 



274 A STORY OF DOOM. 

" My lord," quoth she, " I will. 
But 0, good sir, be sure of this, be sure 
The Master calleth ; for the time is Long 
That thou hast warned the world : thou art but here 
Three days ; the song of welcoming but now 
Is ended. I behold thee, I am glad : 
And wilt thou go again? Husband, I say, 
Be sure who 'tis that calleth ; O, be sure, 
Be sure. My mother's ghost came up last night, 
Whilst I thy beard, held in my hands, did kiss, 
Leaning auear thee, wakeful through my love, 
And watchful of thee till the moon went down. 

'* She never loved me since I went with thee 

To sacrifice among the hills : she smelt 

The holy smoke, and could no more divine 

Till the new moon. I saw her ghost come up ; 

It had a snake with a red comb of fire 

Twisted about its waist, — the doggish head 

Lolled on its shoulder, and so leered at me. 

' This woman might be wiser,' quoth the ghost; 

' Shall there be husbands for her found below, 

When she comes down to us? O, fool ! O, fool ! 

She must not let her man go forth, to leave 

Her desolate, and reap the whole world's scorn, 

A harvest for himself.' With that they passed." 

He said : " My crystal drop of perfeetness, 

I pity thee ; it was an evil ghost : 

Thou wilt not heed the counsel? " "I will not," 

Quoth she ; " I am loyal to the Highest. Him 

I hold by even as thou, and deem Him best. 

Sir, am I fairer than when last we met?" 

" God add," said he, u unto thy much yet more, 

As I do think thou art." " And think you, sir," 

Niloiya saith, " that I have reached the prime?" 

He answering, " Nay, not yet." " I would 'twere so," 



A STORY OF DOOM. 275 

She plaineth, " for the daughters mock at me : 
Her locks forbear to grow, they say, so sore 
She pineth for the Master. Look you, sir, 
They reach but to the knee. But thou art come, 
And all goes merrier. Eat, my lord, of all 
My supper that I set, and afterward 
Tell me, I pray thee, somewhat of thy way ; 
Else shall I be despised as Adam w T as, 
Who compassed not the learning of his sons, 
But, grave and silent, oft would lower his head 
And ponder, following of great Isha's feet, 
When she would walk with her fair brow upraised, 
Scorning the children that she bare to him." 

" Ay," quoth the Master ; " but they did amiss 
When they despised their father : knovyestthou that ?* 

" Sure he was foolisher," Niloiya saith, 
" Than any that came after. Furthermore, 
He had not heart nor courage for to rule : 
He let the mastery fall from his slack hand. 
Had not our glorious mother still borne up 
His weakness, chid with him, and sat apart, 
And listened, when the fit came over him 
To talk on his lost garden, he had sunk 
Into the slave of slaves." 

" Nay, thou must think 
How he had dwelt long, God's loved husbandman, 
And looked in hope among the tribes for one 
To be his fellow, ere great Isha, once 
Waking, he found at his left side, and knew 
The deep delight of speech." So Noah, and thus 
Added, "And therefore was his loss the more ; 
For though the creatures he had singled out 
His favorites, dared for him the fiery sword 
And followed after him, — shall bleat of lamb 



276 A STORY OF DOOM. 



Console one for the foregone talk of God? 
Or in the afternoon, his faithful dog, 
Fawning upon him, make his heart forget 
At such a time, and such a time, to have heard 
What he shall hear no more ? 

1 '0, as for him, 
It was for this that he full oft would stop, 
And, lost in thought, stand and revolve that deed. 
Sad muttering, k W.unan ! we reproach thee not; 
Though thou didst eat mine immortality; 
Earth, be not sorry ; I was free to choose.' 
Wonder not, therefore, if he walked forlorn. 
Was not the helpmeet given to raise him up 
From his contentment with the lower things? 
Was she not somewhat that he could not rule 
Beyond the action, that he could not have 
By the mere holding, and that still aspired 
And drew him after her? So, when deceived 
She fell by great desire to rise, he fell 
By loss of upward drawing, when she took 
An evil tongue to be her counsellor : 
c Death is not as the death of lower things, 
Rather a glorious change, begrudged of Heaven. 
A change to being as gods,' — he from her hand, 
Upon reflection, took of death that hour, 
And ate it (not the death that she had dared) ; 
He ate it knowing. Then divisions came. 
She, like a spirit strayed who lost the way, 
Too venturesome, among the farther stars, 
And hardly cares, because it hardly hopes 
To find the path to heaven ; in bitter wise 
Did bear to him degenerate seed, and he, 
Once having felt her upward drawing, longed, 
And yet aspired, and yearned to be restored, 
Albeit she drew no more." 



A STORY OF DOOM. 277 

" Sir, ye apeak well," 
Niloiya saith, " but } 7 et the mother aits 
Higher than Adam. He did understand 
Discourse of birds and all four-footed things, 
But she had knowledge of the many tribes 
Of angels and their tongues ; their playful ways 
And greetings when they met. Was she not wise I 
They say she knew much that she never told, 
And had a voice that called to her as thou." 

" Nay," quoth the Master-shipwright, u who am I 

That I should answer? As for me, poor man, 

Here is my trouble : ' if there be a Voice,' 

At first I cried, ' let me behold the mouth 

That uttereth it.' Thereon it held its peace. 

But afterward, I, journeying up the hills, 

Did hear it hollower than an echo fallen 

Across some clear abyss ; and I did stop, 

And ask of all my company, ' What cheer? 

If there be spirits abroad that call to us, 

Sirs, hold your peace and hear.' So they gave heed, 

And one man said, ' It is the small ground-doves 

That peck upon the stony hillocks ; ' one, 

4 It is the mammoth in yon cedar swamp 

That cheweth in his dream ; ' and one, ' My lord, 

It is the ghost of him that yesternight 

We slew, because he grudged to yield his wife 

To thy great father, when he peaceably 

Did send to take her.' Then I answered, ' Pass/ 

And they went on ; and I did lay mine ear 

Close to the earth ; but there came up therefrom 

No sound, nor any speech ; I waited long, 

And in the saying, ' I will mount my beast 

And on,' I was as one that in a trance 

Beholdeth what is coming, and I saw 

Great waters and a ship ; and somewhat spake, 

* Lo, this shall be ; let him that heareth it, 



278 A STORY OF DOOM. 

And seeth it, go forth to warn his kind, 
For I will drown the world.' " 

Niloiya saith, 
" Sir, was that all that ye went forth upon?" 
The Master, he replieth, t; Ay, at first, 
That same was all ; but many days went by, 
While I did reason with my heart and hope 
Fur more, and struggle to remain, and think, 
i Let me be certain ; ' and so think again, 
* The counsel is but dark ; would I had more ! 
When I have more to guide me, I will go.' 
And afterward, when reasoned on too much, 
It seemed remoter, then I only said, 
i O, would I had the same again ; ' and still 
1 had it not. 

" Then at the last I cried, 
' If the unseen be silent, I will speak 
And certify my meaning to myself. 
Say that He spoke, then He will make that good 
Which He hath spoken. Therefore it were best 
To go, and do His bidding. All the earth 
Shall hear the judgment so, and none may cry 
When the doom falls, "Thou God art hard on us ; 
We knew not Thou wert angry. O ! we are lost, 
Only for lack of being warned." 

" 'But say 
That He spoke not, and merely it befell 
That I being weary had a dream. Why, so 
He could not suffer damage ; when the time 
Was past, and that I threatened had not come, 
Men would cry out on me. Imply me kill, 
For troubling their content. They would not swear, 
" God, that did send this man, is proved untrue," 
But rather, " Let him die ; he lied to us ; 
God never sent him." Only Thou, great King, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 279 



Knowest if Thou didst speak or no. I leave 
The matter here. If Thou wilt speak again, 
I go in gladness ; if Thou wilt not speak, 
Nay, if Thou never didst, I not the less 
Shall go, because I have believed, what time 
1 seemed to hear Thee, and the going stands 
With memory of believing.' Then I washed, 
And did array me in the sacred gown, 
And take a lamb." 

"Ay, sir," Niloiya sighed, 
" I following, and I knew not anything 
Till, the young lamb asleep in thy two arms, 
We, moving up among the silent hills, 
Paused in a grove to rest ; and many slaves 
Came near to make obeisance, and to bring 
Wood for the sacrifice, and turf and fire. 
Then in their hearing thou didst say to me, 
' Behold, I know thy good fidelity, 
And theirs that are about us ; they would guard 
The mountain passes, if it were my will 
Awhile to leave thee ; ' and the pygmies laughed 
For joy, that thou wouldst trust inferior things ; 
And put their heads down, as their manner is, 
To touch our feet. They laughed, but sore I wept; 
Sir, I could weep now ; ye did ill to go 
If that was all your bidding ; I had thought 
God drave thee, and thou couldst not choose but go/ 

Then said the son of Lamech, " Afterward, 
When I had left thee, He whom I had served 
Met with me in the visions of the night, 
To comfort me for that I had withdrawn 
From thy dear company. He sware to me 
That no man should molest thee, no, nor touch 
The bordering of mine outmost field. I say, 
When I obeyed, He made His matters plain. 



28o A STORY OF DOOM. 

With whom could I have left thee, but with them, 
Born iu thy mother's house, and bound thy slaves?" 

She said, " I love uot pygmies ; they are naught." 
And he, ••"Who made them pygmies?" Then she 

pushed 
Her veiling hair back from her round, soft eyes, 
And answered, wondering, " Sir, my mothers did ; 
Ye know it." And he drew her near to sit 
Beside him on the settle, answering, "Ay." 
And they went on to talk as writ below, 
If any one shall read : 

"Thy mother did, 
And they that went before her. Thinkest thou 
That they did well?" 

" They had been overcome ; 
And when the angered conquerors drave them out, 
Behoved them find some other way to rule, 
They did but use their wits. Hath not man aye 
Been cunning in dominion, among beasts 
To breed for size or swiftness, or for sake 
Of the white wool he loveth. at his choice? 
What harm if coveting a race of men 
That could but serve, they sought among their thralls, 
Such as were low of stature, men and maids ; 
A} 7 , and of feeble will and quiet mind? 
Did they not spend much gear to gather out 
Such as I tell of, and for matching them 
One with another for a thousand years? 
What harm, then, if there came of it a race, 
Inferior in their wits, and in their size, 
And well content to serve?" 

" What harm? " thou say est. 
My wife doth ask, ' What harm? ' " 



A STORY OF DOOM. 281 

" Your pardon, sir. 
I do remember that there came one da}', 
Two of the grave old angels that God made, 
When first He invented life (right old they were 
And plain, and venerable) : and they said, 
Rebuking of my mother as with hers 
She sat, 'Ye do not well, you wives of men, 
To match your wit against the Maker's will, 
And for your benefit to lower the stamp 
Of His fair image, which He set at first 
Upon man's goodly frame ; ye do not well 
To treat His likeness even as ye treat 
The bird and beast that perish.' " 

" Said they aught 
To appease the ancients, or to speak them fair?" 

" How know I? 'Twas a slave that told it me. 
My mother was full old when I was born, 
And that was in her youth. What think you, sir? 
Did not the giants likewise ill?" 

"To that 
I have no answer ready. If a man, 
When each one is against his fellow, rule, 
Or unmolested dwell, or unreproved, 
Because, for size and strength, he standeth first, 
He will thereof be glad ; and if he say, 

' I will to wife choose me a stately maid, 
And leave a goodly offspring ; ' 'sooth, I think, 
He sinneth not ; for good to him and his 
He would be strong and great. Thy people's fault 
Was, that for ill to others, they did plot 
To make them weak and small." 

"But yet they steal 
Or take in war the strongest maids, and such 
As are of highest stature ; ay, and oft 



282 A STORY OF DOOM. 

They fight among themselves for that same cause. 
And they are proud against the King of heaven : 
They hope in course of ages they shall come 
To be as strong as He." 

The Master said, 
" I will not hear thee talk thereof ; my heart 
Is sick for all this wicked world. Fair wife, 
I am right weary. Call thy slaves to thee, 
And bid that they prepare the sleeping place. 
O would that I might rest ! I fain would rest, 
And, no more wandering, tell a thankless world 
My never-heeded tale ! " 

With that she called. 
The moon was up, and some few stars were out, 
While heavy at the heart he walked abroad 
To meditate before his sleep. And yet 
Niloiya pondered, " Shall my master go? 
And will my master go? What 'vaileth it, 
That he doth spend himself, over the waste 
A- wandering, till he reach outlandish folk, 
That mock his warning? O, what 'vaileth it, 
That he doth lavish wealth to build yon ark, 
Whereat the daughters, when they eat with me, 
Laugh? O my heart ! I would the Voice were stilled 
Is not he happy? Who, of all the earth, 
Obeyeth like to me? Have not I learned 
From his dear mouth to utter seemly words, 
And lay the powers my mother gave me by? 
Have I made offerings to the dragon? Nay, 
And I am faithful, when he leaveth me 
Lonely betwixt the peaked mountain tops 
In this long valley, where no stranger foot 
Can come without my will. He shall not go. 
Not yet, not yet ! But three days — only three — 
Beside me, and a muttering on the third, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 283 

'I have heard the Voice again.' Be dull, O dull, 
Mind and remembrance ! Mother, ye did ill; 
'Tis hard unlawful knowledge not to use. 
Why, O dark mother! opened ye the way?" 
Vet when he entered, and did lay aside 
His costly robe of sacrifice, — the robe 
Wherein he had been offering, ere the sun 
Went down, — forgetful of her mother's craft, 
She lovely and submiss did mourn to him : 
tl Thou wilt not go, — 1 pray thee, do not go, 
Till thou hast seen thy children." And he said, 
" J will not. I have cried, and have prevailed : 
To-morrow it is given me by the Voice 
Upon a four days' journey to proceed, 
And follow down the river, till its waves 
Are swallowed in the sand, where no flesh dwells. 

" l There,' quoth the Unrevcaled, ' we shall meet, 

And I will counsel thee ; and thou shalt turn 

And rest thee with the mother, and with them 

She bare.' Now, therefore, when the morn appears, 

Thou fairest among women, call thy slaves, 

And bid them yoke the steers, and spread thy car 

With robes, the choicest work of cunning hands ; 

Array thee in thy rich apparel, deck 

Thy locks with gold ; and while the hollow vale 

I thread beside yon river, go thou forth 

Atween the mountains to my father's house, 

And. let thy slaves make all obeisance due, 

And take and lay an offering at his feet. 

Then light, and cry to him, c Great king, the son 

Of old Methuselah, thy son hath sent 

To fetch the growing maids, his children, home.' " 

tk Sir," quoth the woman, " I will do this thing, 
So thou keep faith with me, and yet return. 



284 A STORY OF DOOM. 

But will the Voice, think you, forbear to chide, 
Nor that Unseen, who calleth, buffet thee, 
And drive thee on? " 

He saith, " It will keep faith. 
Fear not. I have prevailed, for I besought, 
And lovingly it answered. I shall rest, 
And dwell with thee till after my three sous 
Come from the chase." She said, '• I let them forth 
In fear, for they are young. Their slaves are few. 
The giant elephants be cunning folk ; 
They lie in ambush, and will draw men on 
To follow, — then will turn and tread them down." 

" Thy father's house unwisely planned," said he, 
"To drive them down upon the growing corn 
Of them that were their foes ; for now, behold, 
They suffer while the unwieldy beasts delay 
Retirement to their lauds, and meanwhile, pound 
The damp, deep meadows, to a pulpy mash; 
Or wallowing in the waters foul them ; nay, 
Tread down the banks, and let them forth to flood 
Their cities ; or, assailed and falling, shake 
The walls, and taint the wind, ere thirty men, 
Over the hairy terror piling stones 
Or earth, prevail to cover it." 

She said, 
" Husband, I have been sorry, thinking oft 
I would my sous were home ; but now so well 
Methinks it is with me, that I am fain 
To wish they might delay, for thou wilt dwell 
With me till after they return, and thou 
Hast set thine eyes upon them. Then, ah me ! 
I must sit joyless in my place ; bereft. 
As trees that suddenly have dropped their leaves, 
And dark as nights that have no moon." 



A STORY OF DOOM. 285 



She spake : 
The hope o' the world did hearken, but reply 
Made none. He left his hand on her fair locks 
As she la} T sobbing ; and the quietness 
Of night began to comfort her, the fall 
Of far-off waters, and the winged wind 
That went among the trees. The patient hand, 
Moreover, that was steady, wrought with her, 
Until she said, " What wilt thou? Nay, I know. 
1 therefore answer what thou utterest not. 
Thou lovest me well, and not for thine own ivill 
Consentest to depart. What more? Ay, this: 
/ do avow that He ivhich calleth thee, 
Hath right to call; and I do swear the Voice 
Shall have no let of me to do Its will.** 

BOOK II. 

Now ere the sunrise, while the morning star 
Hung yet behind the pine-bough, woke and prayed 
The world's great shipwright, and his soul was glad 
Because the Voice was favorable. Now 
Began the tap o' the hammer, now ran forth 
The slaves preparing food. They therefore ate 
In peace together ; then Niloiya forth 
Behind the milk-white steers went on her way ; 
And the great Master-builder, down the course 
Of the long river, on his errand sped, 
And as he went, he thought : 

[They do not well 
Who, walking up a trodden path, all smooth 
With footsteps of their fellows, and made straight 
From town to town, will scorn at them that wonn 
Under the covert of God's eldest trees 
(Such as He planted with His hand, and fed 
With dew before rain fell, till they stood close 



286 A STORY OF DOOM. 

And awful : drank the light up as it dropt, 

And kept the dusk of ages at their roots),— 

They do not well who mock at such and cry, 

•• We peaceably, without or fault or fear, 

.Vroceed, and miss not of our end ; but these 

Are slow and fearful : with uncertain pace, 

And ever reasoning of the way, they oft, 

After all reasoning, choose the worser course, 

And plunged in swamp, or in the matted growth 

Nigh smothered struggle, all to reach a goal 

Not worth their pains." Nor do they well whose 

work 
Is still to feed and shelter them and theirs, 
Get gain, and gathered store it, to think scorn 
Or those who work for a world (no wages paid 
By a Master hid in light) , and sent alone 
To face a laughing multitude, whose eyes 
Are full of damaging pity, that forbears 
To tell the harmless laborer, ''Thou art mad."] 

And as he went, he thought : " They counsel me, 
Ay, with a kind of reason in their talk, 
4 Consider ; call thy soberer thought to aid ; 
Why to but one man should a message come? 
And why, if but to one, to thee? Art thou 
Above us, greater, wiser? Had He sent, [knoweth 
He had willed that we should heed. Then since He 
That such as thou, a wise man cannot heed, 
He did not send.' My answer, ' Great and wise, 
If He had sent with thunder, and a voice 
Leaping from heaven, ye must have heard ; but so 
Ye had been robbed of choice, and. like the beasts 
Yoked to obedience. God makes no men slaves.' 
They tell me, ' God is grent above thy thought: 
He meddles not ; and this small world is ours, 
These many hundred years we govern it ; 



A STORY OF DOOM. 287 

Old Adam, after Eden, saw Him not.' 

Then I, "It may be He is gone to knead 

More clay. But look, my masters ; one of you, 

Going to warfare, layeth up his gown, 

His sickle, or his gold, and thinks no more 

Upon it, till young trees have waxen great; 

At last, when he returneth, he will seek 

His own. And God, shall He not do the like? 

And, having set new worlds a-rolling, come 

And say, "I will betake Me to the earth 

That I did make ; " and, having found it vile, 

Be sorry. Why should man be free, you wise, 

And not the Master?' Then they answer, ' Fool ! 

A man shall cast a stone into the air 

For pastime, or for lack of heed, — but He ! 

Will He come fingering of his ended work, 

Fright it with His approaching face, or snatch 

One day the rolling wonder from its ring, 

And hold it quivering, as a wanton child 

Might take a nestling from its downy bed, 

And having satisfied a careless wish, 

Go thrust it back into its place again ? ' 

To such 1 answer, and, that doubt once mine, 

I am assured that I do speak aright : 

k Sirs, the significance of this your doubt 

Lies in the reason of it ; ye do grudge 

That these your lands should have another Lord ; 

Ye are not loyal, therefore ye would fain 

Your King would bide afar. But if ye looked 

For countenance and favor when He came, 

Knowing yourselves right worthy, would ye care, 

With cautious reasoning, deep and hard, to prove 

That He would never come, arid would your wrath 

Be hot against a prophet? Nay, I wot 

That as a flatterer you would look on him, — 

"Full of sweet words thy mouth is : if He come, — 



:SS A SIORY OF DOOM. 



We think not that He will, — but if He come, 
Would it might be to-morrow, or to-night, 
Because we look for praise." ' " 

Now, as he went, 
The noontide heats came on, and he grew faint ; 
But while he sat below an almug-tree, 
A slave approached with greeting. " Master, hail ! * 
He answered, " Hail ! what wilt thou?" Then she 

said, 
11 The palace of thy fathers standeth nigh." 
" I know it," quoth he ; and she said again, 
" The Elder, learning thou wouldst pass, hath sent 
To fetch thee." Then he rose and followed her. 
So first they walked beneath a lofty roof 
Of living bough and tendril, woven on high 
To let no drop of sunshine through, and hung 
With gold and purple fruitage, and the white 
Thick cups of scented blossom. Underneath, 
Soft grew the sward and delicate, and flocks 
Of egrets, ay, and many cranes, stood up, 
Fanning their wings, to agitate and cool 
The noonday air, as men with heed and pains 
Had taught them, marshalling and taming them 
To bear the wind in, on their moving wings. 

So long time as a nimble slave would spend 
In milking of her cow, the}' walked at ease ; 
Then reached the palace, all of forest trunks, 
Brought whole and set together, made. Therein 
Had dwelt old Adam, when his mighty sons 
Had finished it, and up to Eden gate 
Had journeyed for to fetch him. ' w Here," they said, 
" Mother and father, ye may dwell, and here 
Forget the garden wholly." 

So he came 
Under the doorplace, and the women sat, 
Each with her finger on her lips ; but he, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 289 

Having been called, went on, until he reached 
The jewelled settle, wrought with cunning work 
Of gold and ivory, whereon they wont 
To sot the Elder. All with sleekest skins, 
That striped and spotted creatures of the wood 
Had worn, the seat was covered, but thereon 
The Elder was not : by the steps thereof, 
Upon the floor, whereto his silver beard 
Did reach, he sat, and he was in his trance. 
Upon the settle many doves were perched, 
That set the air a-going with their wings : 
These opposite, the world's great shipwright stood 
To wait the burden ; and the Elder spake : 
" Will He forget me? Would He might forget ! 
Old, old ! The hope of old Methuselah 
Is all in His forgetful ness." With that, 
A slave-girl took a cup of wine, and crept 
Anear him, saying, u Taste ; " and when his lips 
Had touched it, lo, he trembled, and he cried, 
" Behold, I prophesy." 

Then straight the}' fled 
That were about him, and did stand apart 
And stop their ears. For he, from time to time, 
Was plagued with that same fate to prophesy, 
And spake against himself, against his day 
And time, in words that all men did abhor. 
Therefore he, warning them what time the fit 
Came on him, saved them, that they heard it not. 
So while they fled, he cried : " I saw the God 
Reach out of heaven His wonderful right hand. 
Lo, lo ! He dipped it in the unquiet sea, 
And in its curved palm behold the ark, 
As in a vast calm lake, came floating on. 
Ay, then, His other hand — the cursing hand — 
He took and spread between us and the sun, 
And all was black ; the day was blotted out, 
And horrible staggering took the frighted earth. 



290 A STORY OF DOOM. 

1 heard the water hiss, and then methinks 

The crack as of her splitting. Did she take 

Their palaces that are my brothers dear, 

And huddle them with all their ancientry 

Under into her breast? If it was black, 

How could this old man see ? There was a noise 

I' the dark, and He drew back His hand again. 

I looked — It was a dream, — let no man say 

It was aught else. There, so — the fit goes by. 

Sir, and my daughters, is it eventide? — 

Sooner than that, saith old Methuselah, 

Let the vulture lay his beak to my green limbs. 

What ! art Thou envious ? — are the sons of men 

Too wise to please Thee, and to do Thy will? 

Methuselah, he sitteth on the ground, 

Clad in his gown of age, the pale white gown, 

And goeth not forth to war ; his wrinkled hands 

He claspeth round his knees : old, very old. 

Would he could steal from Thee one secret more — 

The secret of Thy youth ! O, envious God ! 

We die. The words of old Methuselah 

And his prophecy are ended." 

Then the wives, 
\Beholding how he trembled, and the maids 
And children, came anear, saying, " Who art thou 
That standest gazing on the Elder? Lo, 
Thou dost not well : withdraw ; for it was thou 
Whose stranger presence troubled him, and brought 
The fit of prophecy." And he did turn 
To look upon them, and their majesty 
And glorious beauty took away his words ; 
And, being pure among the vile, he cast 
In his thought a veil of snow-white purity 
Over the beauteous throng. "Thou dost not well," 
They said. He answered : ' k Blossoms o' the world, 
Fruitful as fair, never in watered glade, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 291 



Where in the youngest grass blue eups push forth, 

And the white lily reareth up her head, 

And purples cluster, and the saffron flower, 

Clear as a flame of sacrifice, breaks out, 

And every cedar bough, made delicate 

With climbing roses, drops in white and red, — 

Haw I (good angels keep you in their care) 

So beautiful a crowd." 

With that, they stamped, 
Gnashed their white teeth, and, turning, fled and spat 
Upon the floor. The Elder spake to him, 
Yet shaking with the burden, ki Who art thou?" 
He answered :. " I, the man whom thou didst send 
To fetch through this thy woodland, do forbear 
To tell my name ; thou lovest it not, great sire, — 
No, nor mine errand. To tlry house I spake, 
Touching their beauty." " Wherefore didst thou 

spite," 
Quoth he, " the daughters ?" and it seemed he lost 
Count of that prophecy, for very age, 
And from his thin lips dropt a trembling laugh. 
Cw Wicked old man," quoth he, " this wise old man 
I see as 'twere not I. Thou bad old man, 
What shall be done to thee? for thou didst burn 
Their babes, and strew the ashes all about, 
To rid the world of His white soldiers. Ay, 
Scenting of human sacrifice, they fled. 
Cowards ! I heard them winnow their great wings: 
They went to tell Him ; but they came no more. 
The women hate to hear of them, so sore 
They grudged their little ones ; and yet no way 
There was but that. I took it ; I did well." 

With that he fell to weeping. u Son," said he, 
k ' Long have I hid mine eyes from stalwart men. 
For it is hard to lose the majesty 
And pride and power of manhood : but to-day, 



292 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Stand forth into the light, that I may look 
Upon thy strength, and think, Even thus did I, 
In the glory of my youth, moke like to God 
Than like His soldiers, face the vassal world." 

Then Noah stood forward in his majesty, 

Shouldering the golden billhook, wherewithal 

He wont to cut his way, when tangled in 

The matted hayes. And down the opened roof 

Fell slanting beams upon his stately head, 

And streamed along his gown, and made to shine 

The jewelled sandals on his feet. 

And, lo, 
The Elder cried aloud : " I prophesy. 
Behold, my son is as a fruitful field 
When all the lands are waste. The archers drew, — 
They drew the bow against him ; they were fain 
To slay : but he shall live, — my son shall live, 
And I shall live by him in the other days. 
Behold the prophet of the Most High God : 
Hear him. Behold the hope o' the world, what time 
She lieth under. Hear him ; he shall save 
A seed alive, and sow the earth with man. 
O earth ! earth ! earth ! a floating shell of wood 
Shall hold the remnant of thy mighty lords. 
Will this old man be in it? Sir, and you, 
My daughters, hear him ! Lo, this white old man 
He sitteth on the ground. (Let be, let be : 
Why dost Thou trouble us to make our tongue 
Ring with abhorred words?) The prophecy 
Of the Elder, and the vision that he. saw, 
They both are ended." 

Then said Noah : "The life 
Of this m} T lord is low for very age : 
Why then, with bitter words upon thy tongue, 
Father of Lamech, dost thou anger Him? 



A STORY OF DOOM. 293 

Thou caost Dot strive against Him now." He said : 

tk Thy feet are toward the valley, where lie bones 

Bleaching upon the desert. Did 1 love 

The lithe strong lizards that 1 yoked and set 

To draw my car ? and were they not possessed ? 

Yea, all of them were liars. I loved them well. 

What did the Enemy, but on a day 

When I behind my talking team went forth, 

They sweetly lying, so that all men praised 

Their flattering tongues and mild persuasive eyes, — - 

What did the Enemy but send His slaves, 

Angels, to cast down stones upon their heads 

And break them? Nay, I could not stir abroad 

But havoc came ; they never crept or flew 

Beyond the shelter that I buiided here, 

But straight the crowns I had set upon their heads 

Were marks for myrmidons that in the clouds 

Kept watch to crush them. Can a man forgive 

That hath been warred on thus? I will not. Nay, 

I swear it, — I, the man Methuselah." 

The Master-shipwright, he replied, " 'Tis true, 

Great loss was that ; but they that stood thy friends, 

The wicked spirits, spoke upon their tongues, 

And cursed the God of heaven. What marvel, sir, 

If He was angered ? " But the Elder cried : 

" They all are dead, — the toward beasts I loved ; 

My goodly team, my joy, they all are dead ; 

Their bones lie bleaching in the wilderness : 

And I will keep my wrath for evermore 

Against the Enemy that slew them. Go, 

Thou coward servant of a tyrant King, 

Go down the desert of the bones, and ask, 

4 My King, what bones are these? Methuselah, 

The white old man that sitteth on the ground, 

Sendeth a message, " Bid them that they live, 

And let my lizards run up every path 

They wont to take when out of silver pipes, 



294 A STORY OF DOOM. 

The pipes that Tubal wrought into my roof, 
I blew a sweeter cry than song-bird's throat 
Hath ever formed ; and while they laid their heads 
Submiss upon mv threshold, poured away 
Music that welled by heartsful out, and made 
The throats of men that heard to swell, their breasts 
To heave with the joy of grief ; yea, caused the lips 
To laugh of men a&leep. 

Return to me 
The great wise lizards ; ay, and them that flew 
My pursuivants before me. Let me yoke 
Again that multitude ; and here 1 swear 
That they shall draw my car and me thereon 
Straight to the ship of doom. So men shall know 
My loyalty, that I submit, and Thou 
Shalt yet have honor, O mine Enemy, 
By me. The speech of old Methuselah." ' " 

Then Noah made answer, " By the living God, 

That is no enemy to men, great sire, 

I will not take dry message ; hear thou Him. 

'Behold (He saith that sufFereth thee), behold, 

The earth that I made green cries out to Me, 

Red with the costly blood of beauteous man. 

I am robbed, I am robbed (He saith) ; they sacrifice 

To evil demons of My blameless flocks, 

That I did fashion with My hand. Behold, 

How goodly was the world ! I gave it thee 

Fresh from its finishing. What hast thou done? 

I will cry out to the waters, Cover it, 

And hide it from Us Father. Lo, Mine eyes 

Tarn from it shamed.' " 

With that the old man laughed 
Full softly. " Ay," quoth he, " a goodly world, 
And we have done with it as we did list. 
Why did He give it us? Nay, look you, son: 



A STORY OF DOOM. 295 

Five score they were that died in yonder waste ; 

And if He crieth, ' Repent, be reconciled/ 

1 answer, ' Nay, my lizards ; ' and again, 

If He will trouble me in this mine age, 

• Why hast Thou slain my lizards ? ' Now my speech 

Is cut away from all my other words, 

Standing alone. The Elder sweareth it, 

The man of many days, Methuselah." 

Then answered Noah, "My Master, hear it not; 
But yet have patience ; " and he turned himself, 
And down betwixt the ordered trees went forth, 
And in the light of evening made his way 
Into the waste to meet the Voice of God. 

BOOK III. 

Above the head of great Methuselah 
There lay two demons in the opened roof 
Invisible, and gathered up his words ; 
For when the Elder prophesied, it came 
About, that hidden things were shown to them, 
And burdens that he spake against his time. 

(But never heard them, such as dwelt with him ; 
Their ears they stopped, and willed to live at ease 
In all delight ; and perfect in their youth, 
And strong, disport them in the perfect world.) 

Now these were fettered that they could not fly, 

For a certain disobedience they had wrought 

Against the ruler of their host ; but not 

The less they loved their cause ; and when the feet 

O' the Master-builder were no longer heard, 

They, slipping to the sward, right painfully 

Did follow, for the one to the other said, 

" Behooves our master know of this ; and us, 

Should he be favorable, he may loose 

From these our bonds." 



296 A STORY OF DOOM. 

. 1 , 

And thus it came to pass, 
That while at dead of night the old dragon lay 
Coiled in the cavern where he dwelt, the watch 
Pacing before it saw in middle air 
A boat, that gleamed like fire, and on it came, 
And rocked as it drew near, and then it burst 
And went to pieces, and there fell therefrom, 
Close at the cavern's mouth, two glowing balls. 

Now there was drawn a curtain nigh the mouth 
Of that deep cave, to testify of wrath. 
The dragon had been wroth with some that served, 
And chased them from him ; and his oracles, 
That wont to drop from him, were stopped, and men 
Might only pray to him through that fell web 
That hung before him. Then did whisper low 
Some of the little spirits that, bat-like, clung 
And cluster'd round the opening. " Lo," they said, 
While gazed the watch upon those glowing balls, 
" These are like moons eclipsed ; but let them lie 
Red on the moss, and sear its dewy spires, 
Until our lord give leave to draw the web, 
And quicken reverence by his presence dread, 
For he will know and call to them by name, 
AnO they will change. At present he is sick, 
And wills that none disturb him." So they lay, 
And there was silence, for the forest tribes 
Came never near that cave. Wiser than men, 
They fled the serpent hiss that oft by night 
Came forth of it, and feared the wan dusk forms 
That stalked among the trees, and in the dark 
Those whiffs of flame that wandered up the sky 
And made the moonlight sickly. 

Now, the cave 
Was marvellous for beauty, wrought with tools 
Into the living rock, for there had worked 
All cunning men, to cut 011 it with siims 



;i STORY OF DOOM. 297 

And shows, yea, all the manner of mankind. 
The fateful apple-tree was there, a bongh 
Bent with the weight of him that us beguiled ; 
And lilies of the held did seem to blow 
And bud in the storied stone. There Tubal sat, 
Who from his harp delivered music, sweet 
As an}' in the spheres. Yea, more ; 
Earth's latest wonder on the walls appeared, 
Unfinished, workmen clustering on its ribs ; 
And farther back, within the rock hewn out, 
Angelic figures stood, that impious hands 
Had fashioned ; many golden lamps they held 
By golden chains depending, and their eyes 
All tended in a reverent quietude 
Toward the couch whereon the dragon lay. 
The tioor was beaten gold ; the curl}' lengths 
Of his last coils lay on it, hid from sight 
With a coverlet made stiff with crusting gems, 
Fire-opals shooting, rubies, fierce bright eyes 
Of diamonds, or the pale green emerald, 
That changed their lustre when he breathed. 

His head. 
Feathered with crimson combs, and all his neck, 
And half-shut fans of his admired wings, 
That in their scaly splendor put to shame 
Or gold or stone, lay on his ivory couch 
And shivered ; for the dragon suffered pain : 
He suffered and he feared. It was his doom, 
The tempter, that he never should depart 
From the bright creature that in Paradise 
He for his evil purpose erst possessed, 
Until it died. Thus only, spirit of might 
And chiefest spirit of ill, could he be free. 

But with its nature wed, as souls of men 
Are wedded to their clay, he took the dread 
Of death and dying, and the coward heart 



298 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Of the beast, aud craven terrors of the end 
Sank him that habited within it to dread 
Disunion. He, a dark dominion erst 
Rebellious, lay and trembled, for the flesh 
Daunted his immaterial. He was sick 
And sorry. Great ones of the earth had sent 
Their chief musicians for to comfort him, 
Chanting his praise, the friend of man, the god 
That gave them knowledge, at so great a price 
And costly. Yea, the riches of the mine, 
And glorious broidered work, and woven gold, 
And all things wisely made, they at his feet 
Laid daily ; for they said, tk This mighty one, 
All the world wonders after him. He lieth 
Sick in his dwelling ; he hath long foregone 
(To do us good) dominion, and a throne, 
And his brave warfare with the Enemy, 
So much he pitieth us that were denied 
The gain and gladness of this knowledge. Now 
Shall he be certified of gratitude, 
And smell the sacrifice that most he loves." 

The nignt was dark, but every lamp gave forth 
A tender, lustrous beam. His beauteous wings 
The dragon fluttered, cursed awhile, then turned 
And moaned with lamentable voice, " 1 thirst, 
Give me to drink." Thereon stepped out in haste, 
From inner chambers, lovely ministrants, 
Young boys, with radiant locks and peaceful eyes, 
Aud poured out liquor from their cups to cool 
His parched tongue, and kneeling held it nigh 
In jewelled basius sparkling; and he lapped, 
And was appeased, and said, ' w I will not hide 
Longer, my much-desired face from men. 
Draw back the web of separation." Then 
With cries of grntulation ran they forth, 
And flung it wide, and all the watch fell low, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 299 

Each on his face, as drunk with sudden joy. 
Thus marked he, glowing on the branched moss, 
Those red rare moons, and let his serpent eyes 
Consider them full subtly, " What be these?" 
Inquiring : and the little spirits said, 
" As we for thy protection (having heard 
That wrathful sons of darkness walk to-night, 
Such as do oft ill-use us) clustered here, 
We marked a boat afire, that sailed the skies, 
And furrowed up like spray a billowy cloud, 
And lo, it went to pieces, scattering down 
A rain of sparks and these two angry moons." 
Then said the dragon, " Let my guard, and } 7 ou, 
Attendant hosts, recede ; " and they went back, 
And funned about the cave a widening ring, 
Then, halting, stood afar; and from the cave 
The snaky wonder spoke, with hissing tongue, 
"If ye were Tartis and Deleisonon, 
Be Tartis and Deleisonon once more." 

Then egg-like cracked the glowing balls, and forth 

Started black angels, trampling hard to free 

Their fettered feet from out the smoking shell. 

And he said, u Tartis and Deleisonon, 

Your lord I am : draw nigh." "Thou art our lord,"' 

They answered, and with fettered limbs full low 

They bent, and made obeisance. Furthermore, 

" O fiery flying serpent, after whom 

The nations go, let thy dominion last," 

They said, u forever." And the serpent said, 

" It shall : unfold your errand." They replied, 

One speaking for a space, and afterward 

His fellow taking up the word with fear, 

And panting, "We were set to watch the mouth 

Of great Methuselah. There came to him 

The son of Lamech two days since." " My lord, 



3oo A STORY OF DOOM. 

They prophesied, the Elder prophesied, 

Unwitting, of the floods of waters, — ay, 

A vision was before him, and the lands 

La} r under water drowned. He saw the ark, — 

It floated in the Enemy's right hand." 

" Lord of the lost, the son of Lamech fled 

Into the wilderness to meet His voice 

That reigneth ; and we, diligent to hear 

Aught that might serve thee, followed, but, forbid 

To enter, la}' upon its boundary cliff", 

And wished for morning." 

" When the dawn was red 
We sought the man, we marked him; and he 

]» rayed, — 
Kneeling, he prayed in the valley, and said — " 
" Nay," quoth the serpent, " spare me, what devout 
He fawning grovelled to the All-powerful ; 
But if of what shall hap he aught let fall, 
Speak that." They answered, "He did pray as one 
That looketh to outlive mankind, — and more, 
We are certified by all his scattered words, 
That He will take from men their length of days, 
And cut them off like grass in its first flower : 
From henceforth this shall be." 

That when he heard, 
The dragon made to the night his moan. 

"And more," 
They said, " that He above would have men knew 
That He doth love them, whoso will repent, 
To that man He is favorable, yea, 
Will be his loving Lord." 

The dragon cried, 
" The last is worse than all. man, thy heart 
Is stout against His wrath, lint will lie love? 
I heard it rumored in the heavens of old 



A STORY OF DOOM. 301 

(And cloth He love ?) . Thou wilt not, canst not ; stand 
Against the love of God. Dominion fails ; 
I see it float from me, that long have worn 
Fetters of flesh to win it. Love of God ! 
L cry against thee ; thou art worse than all." 
They answered, kt Be not moved, admired chief 
And trusted of mankind ; " and they went on, 
And fed him with the prophecies that fell 
From the Master-shipwright in his prayer. 

But prone 
He Lay, for he was sick : at every word 
Prophetic cowering. As a bruising blow, 
It fell upon his head and daunted him, 
Until they ended, saying, " Prince, behold, 
Thy servants have revealed the whole." 

Thereon 
He out of snak}' lips did kiss forth thanks. 
Then said he, u Tartis and Delcisonon, 
Receive your wages." 80 their fetters fell ; 
And they, retiring, lauded him, and cried, 
" King, reign forever." Then he mourned, " Amen." 

And he, —being left alone, — he said : " A light ! 

I see a light, — a star among the trees, — 

An angel." And it drew toward the cave, 

But with its sacred feet touched not the grass, 

Nor lifted up the lids of its pure eyes, 

But hung a span's length from that ground pollute, 

At the opening of the cave. 

And when he looked, 
The dragon cried, "Thou newly-fashioned thing. 
Of name unknown, thy scorn becomes thee not. 
Doth not thy Master suffer what thine eyes 
Thou conntest all too clean to open on?" 
But still it hovered, and the quietness 



3 02 A STORY OF DOOM. 



Of holy heaven was on the drooping lids ; 
And not as one that answereth, it Let fall 

The music from its mouth, but like to one 

That doth not hear, or, hearing, doth not heed. 

" A message : ' I have heard thee, while remote 

I went My rounds among the unfinished stars.' 

A message : ' I have left thee to thy ways, 

And mastered all thy vileness, for thy hate 

I have made to serve the ends of My great love. 

Hereafter will I chain thee down. To-day 

One thing thou art forbidden ; now thou knowest 

The name thereof : I told it thee in heaven, 

When thou wert sitting at My feet. Forbear 

To let that hidden thing be whispered forth : 

For man, ungrateful (and thy hope it was, 

That so ungrateful he might prove), would scorn, 

And not believe it, adding so fresh weight 

Of condemnation to the doomed world. 

Concerning that, thou art forbid to speak ; 

Know thou didst count it, falling from My tongue, 

A lovely song, whose meaning was unknown. 

Unknowable, unbearable to thought, 

But sweeter in the hearing than all harps 

Toned in My holy hollow. Now thine ears 

Are opened, know it, and discern and fear, 

Forbearing speech of it for evermore.' " 

So said, it turned, and with a cry of joy, 
As one released, went up ; and it was dawn, 
And all boughs dropped with dew, and out of mist 
Came the red sun and looked into the cave. 

But the dragon, left a-tremble, called to him, 
From the nether kingdom, certain of his friends, — 
Three whom he trusted, councillors accursed. 
A thunder-cloud stooped lowand swathed the place 
Xn its black swirls, and out of it they rushed, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 303 

And hid them in recesses of the cave, 
Because they could not look upon the sun, 
Sith light is [jure. Aiid Satan called to them, — 
All in the dark, in his great rage he spake : 
i; Up," quoth the dragon ; " it is time to work, 
Or we are all undone." And he did hiss, 
And there came shudderings over land and trees, 
A dimness after dawn. The earth threw out 
A blinding fog, that crept toward the cave, 
And rolled up blank before it like a veil, — 
A curtain to conceal its habiters. 
Then did those spirits move upon the floor, 
Like pillars of darkness, and with eyes aglow. 
One had a helm for covering of the scars 
That seamed what rested of a goodly face ; 
He wore his vizor up, and all his words 
Were hollower than an echo from the hills : 
He was hight Make. And lo, his fellow-fiend 
Came after, holding down his dastard head, 
Like one ashamed : now this for craft was great ; 
The dragon honored him. A third sat down 
Among them, covering with his wasted hand 
Somewhat that pained his breast. 

And when the fit 
Of thunder, and the sobbings of the wind, 
Were lulled, the dragon spoke with wrath and rage, 
And told them of his matters : " Look to this, 
If ye be loyal ; " adding, "Give your thoughts, 
And let me have your counsel in this need." 

One spirit rose and spake, and all the cave 

Was full of sighs, " The words of Make the Prince, 

Of him once delegate in Betelgeux : 

Whereas of late the manner is to change, 

We know not where 'twill end ; and now my words 

Go thus : give way, be peaceable, lie still 



304 A STORY OF DOOM. 

And strive not, else the world that we have won 
He may, to drive us out, reduce to naught. 

" For while I stood in mine obedience }'et, 
Steering of Betelgeux my .sun, behold, 
A moon, that evil ones did fill, rolled up 
Astray, and suddenly the Master came, 
And while, a million strong, like rooks they rose, 
He took and broke it, flung it here and there, 
And called a blast to drive the powder forth ; 
And it was fine as dust, and blurred the skies 
Farther than 'tis from hence to this young sun- 
Spirits that passed upon their work that day, 
Cried out, ' How dusty 'tis.' Behooves us, then, 
That we depart, as leaving unto Him 
This goodly world and goodly race of man. 
Not all are doomed : hereafter it may be 
That we find place on it again. But if, 
Too zealous to preserve it, and the men 
Our servants, we oppose Him, He may come, 
And, choosing rather to undo His work 
Than strive with it for aye, make so an end." 
lie sighing paused. Lo, then the serpent hissed 
In impotent rage, "Depart ! and how depart ! 
Can flesh be carried down where spirits wonn ? 
Or I, most miserable, hold my life 
Over the airless, bottomless gulf, and bide 
The bnffe tings of yonder shoreless sea? 
O death, thou terrible doom : O death, thou dread 
Of all that breathe." 

A spirit rose and spake : 
u Whereas in Heaven is power, is much to fear ; 
For this admired country we have marred. 
Whereas in Heaven is love (and there are days 
When yet 1 can recall what love was like), 
Is naught to fear. A threatening makes the whole, 
And clogged with strong conditions : ' O, repent, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 305 



Man, and I turn.' He, therefore, powerful now, 
And more so, master, that ye bide in clay, 
Threateneth that He may save. They shall not die." 

The dragon said, lk I tremble, I am sick." 

He said with pain of heart, ''How am I fallen ! 

For I keep silence ; yea, I have withdrawn 

From haunting of His gates, and shouting up 

Defiance. Wherefore doth He hunt me out 

From this small world, this little one, that I 

Have been content to take unto myself, 

I here being loved and worshipped? He knoweth 

How much I have foregone ; and must He stoop 

To whelm the world, and heave the floors o' the deep, 

Of purpose to pursue me from my place? 

And since I gave men knowledge, must He take 

Their length of days whereby they perfect it? 

So shall He scatter all that I have stored, 

And get them by degrading them. I know 

That in the end it is appointed me 

To fade. I will not fade before the time." 

A spirit rose, the third, a spirit ashamed 

And subtle, and his face he turned aside : 

" Whereas," said he, " we strive against both power 

And love, behooves us that we strive aright. 

Now some of old my comrades yesterda}-, 

I met, as they did journey to appear 

In the Presence ; and I said, ' My master lieth 

Sick yonder, otherwise (for no decree 

There stands against it) he would also come 

And make obeisance with the sons of God.' 

They answered, naught denying. Therefore, lord. 

'Tis certain that ye have admittance yet ; 

And what doth hinder? Nothing but this breathe 

Were it not well to make an end, and die, 

And gain admittance to the King of kings? 



3 o6 A STORY OF DOOM. 

What if thy slaves by thy consent should take 
And bear thee on their wings above the earth, 
And suddenly let fall, — how soon 'twere o'er! 
We should have fear and sinking at the heart ; 
But in a little moment we should see, 
Rising majestic from a ruined heap, 
The stately spirit that we served of yore." 

The serpent turned his subtle deadly eyes 

Upon the spirit, and hissed ; and, sick with shame, 

It bowed itself together, and went back 

With hidden face. " This counsel is not good," 

The other twain made answer ; " look, my lord, 

Whereas 'tis evil in thine eyes, in ours 

Tis evil also ; speak, for we perceive 

That on thy tongue the words of counsel sit, 

Ready to fly to our right greedy ears, 

That long for them." And Satan, flattered thus 

(Forever may the serpent kind be charmed 

With soft, sweet words, and music deftly played), 

Replied, " Whereas I surely rule the world, 

Behooves that ye prepare for me a path, 

And that I, putting of my pains aside, 

Go stir rebellion in the mighty hearts 

O' the giants ; for He loveth them, and looks 

Full oft complacent on their glorious strength. 

He willeth that they yield, that He may spare ; 

But, by the blackness of my loathed den, 

I say they shall not, no, they shall not yield ; 

Go, therefore, take to you some harmless guise, 

And spread a rumor that I come. I, sick, 

Sorry, and aged, hasten. I have heard 

Whispers that out of heaven dropped unaware. 

I caught them up, and sith they bode men harm 

1 am ready for to comfort them ; yea, more, 

To counsel, and I will that they drive forth 

The women, the abhorred of my soul ; 



A STORY OF DOOM. 307 

Let not a woman breathe where I shall pass, 
Lest the curse falleth, and she bruise my head. 
Friends, if it be their mind to send for me 
An army, and triumphant draw me on 
In the golden car you wot of, and with shouts, 
I would not that ye hinder them. Ah, then 
Will I make hard their hearts, and grieve Him soi\. 
That loves them, O, by much too well to wet 
Their stately heads, and soil those locks of strength 
Under the fateful brine. Then afterward, 
While He doth reason vainly with them, I 
Will offer Him a pact : ' Great King, a pact, 
And men shall worship Thee, I say they shall, 
For I will bid them do it, yea, and leave 
To sacrifice their kind, so Thou my name 
Wilt suffer to be worshipped after Thine.' " 

" Yea, my lord Satan," quoth they, " do this thing, 

And let us hear thy words, for they are sweet." 

Then he made answer, " By a messenger 

Have I this day been warned. There is a deed 

I may not tell of, lest the people add 

Scorn of a Coming Greatness to their faults. 

Why this? Who careth, when about to slay, 

And slay indeed, how well they have deserved 

Death whom he slayeth? Therefore yet is hid 

A meaning of some mercy that will rob 

The nether world. Now look to it, — 'Twere vain T 

Albeit this deluge He would send indeed, 

That we expect the harvest ; He would yet 

Vii the Master-reaper ; for I heard it said, 

Them that be young and know Him not, and them 

That are bound and may not build, yea, more, their 

wives, 
Whom, suffering not to hear the doom, they keep 
Joyous behind the curtains, every one 
With maidens nourished in the house, and babes 



3 o8 



A STOKV OF DOOM. 



And children at her knees — (then what remain!) 

He claimeth and will gather for His own. 

Now, therefore, it were good by guile to work. 

Princes, and suffer not the doom to fall. 

There is no evil like to love. I heard 

Him whisper it. Have I put on this flesh 

To ruin His two children beautiful, 

And shall my deed confound me in the end, 

Through awful imitation? Love of God, 

I cry against thee ; thou art worst of all." 

BOOK IV. 

Now while these evil ones took counsel strange, 
The son of Lamech journeyed home ; and, lo ! 
A company came down, and struck the track 
As he did enter it. There rode in front 
Two horsemen, young and noble, and behind 
Were following slaves with tent gear ; others led 
Strong horses, others bare the instruments 
O' the chase, and in the rear dull camels lagged, 
Sighing, for they were burdened, and they loved 
The desert sands above that grassy vale. 

And as they met, those horsemen drew the rein, 
And fixed on him their grave untroubled eyes ; 
He in his regal grandeur walked alone, 
And had nor steed nor follower, and his mien 
Was grave and like to theirs. He said to them, 
" Fair sirs, whose are ye ? " They made answer cold, 
" The beautiful woman, sir, our mother dear, 
Niloiya, bare us to great Lamech's son." 
And he, replying, " I am he." They said, 
" We know it, sir. We have remembered you 
Through many seasons. Pray you let us not; 
We fain would greet our mother." And they made 
Obeisance and passed on ; then all their train, 



A S7VRY OF DOOM. 



3°9 



Which while they spoke had halted, moved apace, 
And, while the silent father stood, went by, 
He gazing after, as a man that dreams ; 
For he was sick with their cold, quiet scorn, 
That seemed to say, ** Father, we own you not, 
We love you not, for you have left us long, — 
So long, we care not that you come again." 

And while the sullen camels moved, he spake 

To him that led the last, " There are but two 

Of these my sons ; but where doth Japhet ride? 

For I would see him." And the leader said, 

44 Sir, ye shall find him, if ye follow up 

Along the track. Afore the noonday meal 

The young men, even our masters, bathed ; (there 

grows 
A clump of cedars by the bend of yon 
Clear river) — there did Japhet, after meat, 
Being right weary, lay him down and sleep. 
There, with a company of slaves and some 
Few camels, ye shall find him." 

And the man, 
The father of these three, did let him pass, 
And struggle and give battle to his heart, 
Standing as motionless as pillar set 
To guide a wanderer in a pathless waste ; 
But all his strength went from him, and he strove 
Vainly to trample out and trample down 
The misery of his love unsatisfied, — 
Unutterable love flung in his face. 
Then he broke out in passionate words, that cried 
Against his lot : ' 4 1 have lost my own, and won 
None other ; no, not one ! Alas, my sons ! 
That I have looked to for my solacing, 
In the bitterness to come. My children dear 1 " 



3 io A STORY OF DOOM. 

And when from his own lips he heard those words, 
With passionate stirring of the heart, he wept. 

And none came near to comfort him. His face 

Was on the ground ; bnt having wept, he rose 

Full hastily, and urged his way to find 

The river ; and in hollow of his hand 

Raised up the water to his brow : " This son, 

This other son of mine/' he said, " shall see 

Ko tears upon my face." And he looked on, 

Beheld the camels, and a group of slaves 

Sitting apart from some one fast asleep, 

Where the}* had spread out webs of broidery work 

Under a cedar-tree ; and he came on, 

And when they made obeisance, he declared 

His name, and said, " I will beside my son 

Sit till he wakcneth." So Japhet lay 

A-dreaming, and his father drew to liim. 

He said, -' This cannot scorn me }~et ; " and paused, 

Eight angry with himself, because the youth, 

Albeit of stately growth, so languidly 

Lag" with a listless smile upon his mouth, 

That was full sweet and pure ; and as he looked 

He half forgot his trouble in his pride. 

-' And is this mine? " said he, -- my son ! my own ! 

(God, thou art good !) O, if this turn away, 

That pang shall be past bearing. I must think 

That all the sweetness of his goodly face 

Is copied from his soul. How beautiful 

Are children to their fathers ! Son, my heart 

Is greatly glad because of thee ; nry life 

Shall lack of no completeness in the days 

To come. If I forget the joy of youth, 

In thee shall I be comforted ; ay, see 

My youth, a dearer than my own again." 

And when lie ceased, the youth, with sleep content, 
Murmured a little, turned himself, and woke. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 3I1 

He woke, and opened on his father's face 

The darkness of his eyes ; but not a word 

The Master-shipwright said, — his lips were sealed ; 

He was not ready, for he feared to see 

This mouth curled up with scorn. And Japhet 

spoke, 
Full of the calm that cometh after sleep : 
"• Sir, I have dreamed of you. I pray you, sir, 
What is your name ? " and even with his words 
His countenance changed. The son of Lamech said, 
" Why art thou sad? What have I done to thee ? " 
And Japhet answered, " O, methought I fled 
In the wilderness before a maddened beast, 
And you came up and slew it ; and I thought 
You were my father ; but I fear me, sir, 
My thoughts were vain." With that his father said, 
" Whate'er of blessing Thou reserv'st for me, 
God ! if Thou wilt not give to both, give here : 
Bless him with both Thy hands ; " and laid his own 
On Japhet's head. 

Then Japhet looked on him, 
Made quiet by content, and answered low, 
With faltering laughter, glad and reverent: " Sir, 
You are my father?" " Ay," quoth he, ''I am ! 
Kiss me, my son ; and let me hear my name, 
My much desired name, from your dear lips." 

Then after, rested, they betook them home : 

And Japhet, walking by the Master, thought, 

' ' I did not will to love this sire of mine ; 

But now I feel as if I had always known 

And loved him well ; truly, I see not why, 

But I would rather serve him than go free 

With my two brethren." And he said to him, 

" Father ! " — who answered, " I am here, my son." 

And Japhet said, " I pray you, sir, attend 



3 i2 A STORY OF DOOM. 

To this my answer : let me go with you, 

For, now I think on it, I do not love 

The chase, nor managing the steed, nor yet 

The arrows and the bow ; but rather you, 

For all you do and say, and you yourself, 

Are goodly and delightsome in mine eyes. 

1 pray you, sir, when you go forth again, 

That I may also go." And he replied, 

^ I will tell thy speech unto the Highest; He 

Shall answer it. But I would speak to thee 

Now of the days to come. Know thou, most dear, 

To this thy father, that the drenched world, 

When risen clean washed from water, shall receive 

From thee her lordliest governors, from thee 

Daughters of noblest soul." 

So Japhct said, 
" Sir, I am young, but of my mother straight 
I will go ask a wife, that this may be. 
I pray you, therefore, as the manner is 
Of fathers, give me land that I may reap 
Corn for sustaining of my wife, and bruise 
The fruit of the vine to cheer her." But lie said, 
" Dost thou forget? or dost thou not believe, 
My son? " lie answered, " I did ne'er believe, 
My father, ere to-day ; but now, me thinks, 
Whatever thou believest I believe, 
For thy beloved sake. If this then be 
As thou (I hear) hast said, and earth doth bear 
The last of her wheat harvests, and make ripe 
The latest of her grapes ; yet hear me, sir, 
None of the daughters shall be given to me 
If I be landless." Then his father said, 
iv Lift up thine eyes towards the north, my son : " 
And so he did. " Behold thy heritage ! " 
Quoth the world's prince and master, " far away 



A STORY OF DOOM. 3^ 

Upon the side o' the north, where green the field 

Lies every season through, and where the dews 

Of heaven are. wholesome, shall thy children reign ; 

1 part it to them, for the earth is mine ; 

The Highest gave it me : 1 make it theirs. 

Moreover for thy marriage gift, behold 

The cedars where thon sleepedst ! There are vines ; 

And up the rise is growing wheat. I give 

(For all, alas ! is mine), — I give thee both 

For dowry, and my blessing." 

And he said, 
" Sir, you are good, and therefore the Most High 
Shall bless me also. Sir, I love you well." 

BOOK V. 

And when two days were over, Japliet said, 

" Mother, so please you, get a wife for me." 

The mother answered, " Dost thou mock me, son? 

'Tis not the manner of our kin to wed 

So young. Thou knowest it ; art thou not ashamed ? 

Thou carest not for a wife." And the youth blushed, 

And made for answer: "This, my father, saith 

The doom is nigh ; now, therefore, find a maid, 

Or else shall I be wifeless all my days. 

And as for me, I care not ; but the lands 

Are parted, and the goodliest share is mine. 

And lo ! my brethren are betrothed ; their maids 

Are with thee in the house. Then why not mine? 

Didst thou not diligently search for these 

Among the noblest born of all the earth, 

And bring them up? My sisters, dwell they not 

With women that bespeak then] for their sons? 

Now, therefore, let a wife be found for me, 

Fair as the day, and gentle to my will 

As thou art to my father's." When she heard, 



3 i4 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Niloiya sighed, and answered, ,k It is well." 
And Japhet went out from her presence. 

Then 
Quoth the great Master : " Wherefore sought ye not, 
Woman, these many days, nor tired at all, 
Till ye had found, a maiden for thy son? 
In this ye have done ill." Niloiya said : 
" Let not my lord be angry. All my soul 
Is sad : my lord hath walked afar so long, 
That some despise thee ; yea, our servants fail 
Lately to bring their stint of corn and wood. 
And, sir, th} T household slaves do steal away 
To thy great father, and our lands lie waste, — 
None till them : therefore think the women scorn 
To give me — whatsoever gems I send, 
And goodly raiment (yea, I seek afar, 
And sue with all desire and humbleness 
Through every master's house, but no one gives) — 
A daughter lor my son." With that she eeased. 

Then said the Master : " Some thou hast with thee, 

Brought up among thy children, dutiful 

And fair ; thy father gave them for my slaves, — 

Children of them whom he brought captive forth 

From their own heritage." And she replied, 

Right scornfully : " Shall Japhet wed a slave?" 

Then said the Master : "He shall wed : look thou 

To that. I say not he shall wed a slave ; 

But, by the might of One that made him mine, 

I will not quit thee for my doomed way 

Until thou wilt betroth him. Therefore, haste, 

Beautiful woman, loved of me and mine, 

To bring a maiden, and to say, k Behold 

A wife for Japhet.' " Then she answered, " Sir, 

It shall be done." 

And forth Niloiya sped. 
She gathered all her jewels, — all she held 



A STORY OF DOOM. 315 

Of costly or of rich, — and went and spake 

With some few slaves .that yet abode with her, 

For daily they were fewer ; and went forth, 

"With fair and flattering words, among her feres, 

And fain had wrought with them : and she had hope 

That made her sick, it was so faint ; and then 

She had fear, and after she had certainty, 

For all did scorn her. " Nay," they cried, " O fool ! 

If this be so, and on a watery world 

Ye think to rock, what matters if a wife 

Be free or bond ? There shall be none to rule, 

If she have freedom : if she have it not, 

None shall there be to serve." 

And she alit, 
The time being done, desponding at her door. 
And went behind a screen, where should have 

wrought 
The daughters of the captives ; but there wrought 
One only, and this rose from off the floor, 
Where she the river rush full deftly wove, 
And made obeisance. Then Niloiya said, 
" Where are thy fellows? " And the maid replied, 
"Let not Niloiya, this my lady loved, 
Be angry ; they are fled since yesternight." 
Then said Niloiya, "Amarant, my slave, 
When have I called thee by thy name before ? " 
She answered, " Lady, never ; " and she took 
And spread her broidered robe before her face. 
Niloiya spoke thus : "lam come to woe, 
And thou to honor." Saying this she wept 
Passionate tears ; and all the damsel's soul 
Was full of yearning wonder, and her robe 
Slipped from her hand, and her right innocent face 
Was seen betwixt her locks of tawny hair 
That dropped about her knees, and her two eyes, 
Blue as the much-loved flower that rims the beck 



3 i6 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Looked sweetly on Niloiya ; but she knew 
No meaning in her words ; and she drew nigh, 
And kneeled and said, " Will this my lady speak? 
Her damsel is desirous of her words." 
Then said Niloiya, "I, thy mistress, sought 
A. wife for Japhet, and no wife is found." 
And yet again she wept with grief of heart, 
Saying, " Ah me, miserable ! I must give 
A wife, — the Master willeth it, — a wife, 
Ah me ! unto the high-born. He will scorn 
His mother and reproach me. I must give — 
None else have I to give — a slave — even thee." 
This further spake Niloiya : " I was good, — 
Had rue on thee, a tender sucking child, 
When they did tear thee from thy mother's breast 
I fed thee, gave thee shelter, and I taught 
Thy hands all cunning arts that women prize. 
But out on me ! my good is turned to ill. 

Japhet, well beloved ! " And she rose up, 

And did restrain herself, saying, " Dost thou know? 
Behold, this thing shall be." The damsel sighed, 
"Lady, I do." Then went Niloiya forth. 

And Amarant murmured in her deep amaze, 
kt Shall Japhet's little children kiss my mouth? 
And will he sometimes take them from my arms, 
And almost care for me for their sweet sake ? 

1 have not dared to think I loved him, — now 
I know it well : but O, the bitterness 

For him ! " And ending thus, the damsel rose, 
For Japhet entered. And she bowed herself 
Meekly and made obeisance, but her blood 
Kan cold about her heart, for all his face 
Was colored with his passion. 

Japhet spoke : 
He said, " My father's slave ; " and she replied. 
Low drooping her fair head, "My master's son," 



A STORY OF DOOM. 3I? 

And after that a silence fell on them, 

With trembling at her heart, and rage at his. 

And Japhet, mastered of his passion, sat 

And could not speak. O, cruel seemed his fate, — 

80 cruel he that told it, so unkind. 

His breast was full of wounded love and wrath 

Wrestling together ; and his eyes flashed out 

Indignant lights, as all amazed he took 

The insult home that she had offered him, 

Who should have held his honor dear. 

And, lo, 
The misery choked him, and he cried in pain, 
" Go, get thee forth ; " but she, all white and still, 
Parted her lips to speak, and yet spake not, 
Nor moved. And Japhet rose up passionate, 
With lifted arm as one about to strike ; 
But she cried out and met him, and she held 
With desperate might his hand, and prayed to him, 
4 - Strike not, or else shall men from henceforth say, 
' Japhet is like to us.' " And he shook off 
The damsel, and he said, " I thank thee, slave; 
For never have I stricken yet or child 
Or woman. Not for thy sake am I glad, 
Nay, but for mine. Get hence. Obey my words." 
Then Japhet lifted up his voice, and wept. 

And no more he restrained himself, but cried, 

With heavings of the heart, -' O hateful da}* ! 

O day that shuts the door upon delight ! 

A slave ! to wed a slave ! O loathed wife, 

Hated of Japhet's soul." And after, long, 

With face between his hands, he sat, his thoughts 

Sullen and sore ; then scorned himself, and saying, 

" I will not take her, I will die unwed, 

It is but that ; " lift up his eyes and saw 

The slave, and she was sitting at his feet. 



3 i8 A STORY OF DOOM. 

And he, so greatly wondering that she dared 
The disobedience, looked her in the face 
Less angry than afraid, for pale she was 
As lily yet unsmiled on by the sun ; 
And he, his passion being spent, sighed out, 
"Low am I fallen indeed. Hast thou no fear, 
That thou dost flout me ? " but she gave to him 
The sighing echo of his sigh, and mourned, 
" No." 

And he wondered, and he looked again, 
For in her heart there was a new-born pang, 
That cried ; but she, as mothers with their young, 
Suffered, yet loved it ; and there shone a strange 
Grave sweetness in her bine unsullied eyes. 
And Japhet, leaning from the settle, thought, 
"What is it? I will call her by her name, 
To comfort her, for also she is naught 
To blame ; and since I will not her to wife, 
She falls back from the freedom she had hoped." 
Then he said " Amarant ; " and the damsel drew 
Her eyes down slowly from the shaded sky 
Of even, and she said, " My master's son, 
Japhet ; " and Japhet said, " I am not wroth 
With thee, but wretched for my mother's deed, 
Because she shamed me." 

And the maiden said, 
" Doth not thy father love thee well, sweet sir? " 
"Ay," quoth he, "well." She answered, "Let 

the heart 
Of Japhet, then, be merry. Go to him 
And say, ' The damsel whom my mother chose 
Sits by her in the house ; but as for me, 
Sire, ere I take her, let me go with you 
To that same outland country. Also, sir, 
My damsel hath not worked as yet the robe 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



3'9 



Of her betrothal;' now, then, sith he loves, 
He will not say thee nay. Herein for awhile 
Is respite, and thy mother far and near 
Will seek again ; it may be she will find 
A fair, free maiden." 

Japhet said, " O maid, 
Sweet are thy words ; but what if I return, 
And all again be as it is to-day? " 
Then Amarant answered, iL Some have died in youth ; 
But yet, I think not, sir, that I shall die. 
Though ye shall find it even as I had died, — 
Silent for any words I might have said ; 
Empty, for any space I might have filled. 
Sir, I will steal away, and hide afar ; 
But if a wife be found, then will I bide 
And serve." He answered, " O, thy speech is good ; 
Now, therefore (since my mother gave me thee), 
I will reward it ; I will find for thee 
A goodly husband, and will make him free ; 
Thee also." 

Then she started from his feet, 
And, red with shame and anger, flashed on him 
The passion of her eyes ; and put her hands 
With catching of the breath to her fair throat, 
And stood in ber defiance lost to fear, 
Like some fair hind in desperate danger turned 
And brought to bay, and wild in her despair. 
But shortly, " I remember," quoth she, low, 
With raining down of tears and broken sighs, 
" That I am Japhet' s slave ; beseech you, sir, 
As ye were ever gentle, ay, and sweet 
Of language to me, be not harder now. 
Sir, I was yours to take ; I knew not, sir, 
Th.it also ye might give me. Pray you, sir, 
Be pitiful, — be merciful to me, 
A slave." He said, " I thought to do thee good, 



320 



'TORY OF DOOM. 



Vox good hath been thy counsel ; " but she cried, 

lw Good master, be }*ou therefore pitiful 

To me, a slave." And Japhet wondered much 

At her, and at her beauty, for he thought, 

* 4 None of the daughters are so fair as this, 

Nor stand with such a grace majestical ; 

She in her locks is like the travelling sun, 

Setting, all clad in coifing clouds of gold. 

And would she die unmatched ? " He said to her, 

ki What ! wilt thou sail alone in yonder ship, 

And dwell alone hereafter?" " Ay," she said, 

"And serve my mistress." 

" It is well," quoth he, 
And held his hand to her, as is the way 
Of masters. Then she kissed it, and she said, 
" Thanks for benevolence," and turned herself, 
Adding, " I rest, sir, on your gracious words ; " 
Then stepped into the twilight and was gone. 

And Japhet, having found his father, said, 

" Sir, let me also journey when ye go." 

Who answered, " Hath thy mother done her part? v 

He said, kt Yea, truly, and my damsel sits 

Before her in the house : and also, sir, 

She said to me, ' I have not worked, as yet, 

The garment of betrothal.'" And he said, 

" 'Tis not the manner of our kin to speak 

Concerning matters that a woman rules ; 

But hath thy mother brought a damsel home, 

And let her see thy face, then all is one 

As ye were wed." He answered, u Even so, 

It matters nothing ; therefore hear me, sir : 

The damsel being mine, I am content 

To let her do according to her will ; 

And when we shall return, so surely, sir, 

As I shall find her by m}' mother's side, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



Then will I take her : " and he left to speak ; 

His father answering, " Son, thy words are good." 

BOOK VI. 

Night. Now a tent was pitched, and Japhet sat 
In the door and watched, for on a litter lay 
The father of his love. And he was sick 
To death ; but daily he would rouse him up, 
And stare upon the light, and ever say, 
" On, let us journey ; " but it came to pass 
That night, across their path a river ran, 
And they who served the father and the son 
Had pitched the tents beside it, and had made 
A fire to scare away the savagery 
That roamed in that great forest, for their way 
Had led among the trees of God. 

The moon 
Shone on the river, like a silver road 
To lead them over ; but when Japhet looked, 
He said, " We shall not cross it. I shall lay 
This well-beloved head low in the leaves, — 
Not on the farther side." From time to time, 
The water-snakes would stir its glassy flow 
With curling undulations, and would lay 
Their heads along the banks, and, subtle-eyed, 
Consider those long spirting flames, that danced, 
When some red log would break and crumble down, 
And show his dark despondent eyes, that watched, 
Wearily, even Japhet's. But he cared 
Little ; and in the dark, that was not dark, 
But dimness of confused incertitude, 
Would move a-near all silently, and gaze 
And breathe, and shape itself, a maned thing 
With eyes ; and still he cared not, and the form 
Would falter, then recede, and melt again 



;<5 2 2 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Into the farther shade. And Japhet said : 
li How long? The moon hath grown again in heaven. 
After her caving twice, since we did leave 
The threshold of our home ; and now what 'vails 
That far on tumbled mountain snow we toiled, 
Hungry, and weary, all the day ; by night 
Waked with a dreadful trembling underneath, 
To look, while every cone smoked, and there ran 
Red brooks adown, that licked the forest up, 
While in the pale white ashes wading on 
AVe saw no stars? — what 'vails if afterward, 
Astonished with great silence, we did move 
Over the measureless, unknown desert mead; 
"While all the day, in rents and crevices, 
Would lie the lizard and the serpent kind, 
Drowsy ; and in the night take fearsome shapes, 
And ofttimes woman-faced and woman-haired 
Would trail their snaky length, and curse and mourn ; 
Or there would wander up, when we were tired, 
Dark troops of evil ones, with eyes morose, 
Withstanding us, and staring; — O, what 'vails 
That in the dread deep forest we have fought 
With following packs of wolves ? These men of might, 
Even the giants, shall not hear the doom 
My father came to tell them of. Ah me ! 
If God indeed had sent him, would he lie 
(For he is stricken with a sore disease) 
Helpless outside their city? " 

Then he rose, 
And put aside the curtains of the tent, 
To look upou his father's face ; and lo ! 
The tent being dark, he thought that somewhat sat 
Beside the litter ; and he set his eyes 
To see it, and saw not; but only marked 
Where, fallen away from manhood and from power, 
Ilis father lav- Then he came forth again, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



Trembling, and crouched beside the dull red fire. 

And murmured, " Now it is the second time : 

An old man, as I think -(but scarcely saw), 

Dreadful of might. Its hair was white as wool : 

I dared not look ; perhaps I saw not aught, 

But only knew that it was there ; the same 

Which walked beside us once when he did pray." 

And Japhet hid his face between his hands 

For fear, and grief of heart, and weariness 

Of watching ; and he slumbered not, but mourned 

To himself, a little moment, as it seemed, 

For sake of his loved father ; then he lift 

His eyes, and day had dawned. Right suddenly 

The moon withheld her silver, and she hung 

Frail as a cloud. The ruddy flame that played 

By night on dim, dusk trees, and on the Hood, 

Crept red amongst the logs, and all the world 

And all the water blushed and bloomed. The stars 

Were gone, and golden shafts came up, and touched 

The feathered heads of palms, and green was born 

Under the rosy cloud, and purples flew 

Like veils across the mountains ; and he saw, 

Winding athwart them, bathed in blissful peace, 

And the sacredness of morn, the battlements 

And outposts of the giants ; and there ran 

On the other side the river, as it were, 

White mounds of marble, tabernacles fair, 

And towers below a line of inland cliff : 

These were their fastnesses, and here their homes. 

In valleys and the forest, all that night, 
There had been woe ; in every hollow place, 
And under walls, like drifted flowers, or snow, 
Women lay mourning ; for the serpent lodged 
That night within the gates, and had decreed, „ 

" I will (or ever I come) that ye drive out 
The women, the abhorred of my soul." 



3 2 4 



A STORV OF DOOM. 



Therefore, more beauteous than all climbing bloom, 

Purple and scarlet, cumbering of the boughs, 

Or flights of azure doves that lit to drink 

The water of the river ; or, new born. 

The quivering butterflies in companies, 

That slowly crept adown the sandy marge, 

Like living crocus beds, and also drank, 

And rose an orange cloud ; their hollowed hands • 

They dipped between the lilies, or with robes 

Full of ripe fruitage, sat and peeled and ate, 

Weeping ; or comforting their little ones, 

And lulling them with sorrowful long hymns 

Among the palms. 

So went the earlier morn. 
Then came a messenger, while Japhet sat 
Mournfully, and he said, "The men of might 
Are willing ; let thy master, youth, appear." 
And Japhet said, ' w So be it ; " and he thought, 
" Now will I trust in God ; " and he went in 
And stood before his father, and he said, 
" My father ; " but the Master answered not, 
But gazed upon the curtains of his tent, 
Nor knew that one had called him. He was clad 
As ready for the journej', and his feet 
Were sandalled, and his staff was at his side ; 
And Japhet took the gown of sacrifice 
And spread it on him, and he laid his crown 
Upon his knees, and he went forth, and lift 
His hand to heaven, and cried, " My father's God ! n 
But neither whisper came nor echo fell 
When he did listen. Therefore he went on : 
" Behold, I have a thing to say to thee. 
My father charged thy servant, ' Let not ruth 
Prevail with thee to turn and bear me hence, 
For God appointed me my task, to preach 
Before the mighty.' I must do my part 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



3 2 5 



(O, let it not displease thee), for he said 
But 3'esternight, ' When the3* shall send for me, 
Take me before them.' And I sware to him. 
I pray thee, therefore, count his life and mine 
Precious : for I that sware, I will perform." 

Then cried he to his people, " Let us hence ; 
Take up the litter." And they set their feet 
Toward the raft whereby men crossed that flood. 

And while they journeyed, lo, the giants sat 

Within the fairest hall where all were fair, 

Each on his carven throne, o'er-canopied 

A\ r ith work of women. And the dragon lay 

In a place of honor ; and with subtlety 

He counselled them, for they did speak by turns ; 

And they, being proud, might nothing master them 

But guile alone : and he did fawn on them ; 

And when the younger one taunted him, submiss 

lie testified great humbleness, and cried, 

" A cruel God, forsooth ! but nay, O nay, 

I will not think it of Him, that He meant 

To threaten these. O, when I look on them, 

How doth my soul admire." 

And one stood forth, 
The youngest ; of his brethren named " the Rock," 
"Speak out," quoth he, "thou toothless, slavering 

thing, 
What is it? thinkest thou that such as we 
Should be afraid? What is this goodly doom ! 
And Satan laughed upon him. " Lo," said he, 
" Thou art not fully grown, and every one 
I look on standeth higher by the head, 
Yea, and the shoulders, than do other men ; 
Forsooth, thy servant thought not thou wouldst 

fear. 



326 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Thou and thy fellows." Then with one accord, 

u Speak," cried they; and with mild, persuasive 

eyes, 
And flattering tongue, he spoke. 

" Ye mighty ones, 
It hath been known to you these man}" days 
How that for piety 1 am much famed. 
I am exceeding pious ; if I lie, 
As hath been whispered, it is but for sake 
Of God, and that ye should not think Him hard, 
For I am all for God. Now some have thought 
That He hath also (and it may be so 
Or 3'et may not be so) on me been hard ; 
Be not ye therefore wroth for my poor sake ; 
I am contented to have earned 3 our weal, 
Though I must therefore suffer. 

' ' Now to-day 
One cometh, yea, an harmless man, a fool, 
Who boasts lie hath a message from our God, 
And lest that you, for bravery of heart 
And stoutness, being angered with his prate, 
Should lift a hand, and kill him, I am here." 

Then spoke the Leader, "How now, snake? Tliy 

words 
King false. Why ever liest thou, snake, to us? 
Thou coward ! none of us will see thee harmed. 
I say thou liest. The land is strewed with slain ; 
Myself have hewn down companies, and blood 
Makes fertile all the field. Thou knowest it well ; 
And hast thou, driveller, panting sore for age, 
Come with a force to bid us spare one fool? " 

And Satan answered. " Nay you ! be not wroth ; 
Yet true it is, and yet not all the truth. 
Your servant would have told the rest, if now 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



3 2 7 



(For fulness of your life being fretted sore 
A.t mine infirmities, which God in vain 
I supplicate to heal) ye had not caused 
My speech to stop." And he they called "the Oak " 
Made answer, " 'Tis a good snake ; let him be. 
AVhy would ye fright the poor old craven beast? 
Look how his lolling tongue doth foam for fear. 
Ye should have mercy, brethren, on the weak. 
Speak, dragon, thou hast leave ; make stout thy 

heart. 
What ! hast thou lied to this great company? 
It was, we know it was, for humbleness ; 
Thou wert not willing to offend with truth." 
u Yea, majesties," quoth Satan, "thus it was,'* 
And lifted up appealing eyes, and groaned ; 
" O, can it be, compassionate as brave, 
And housed in cunning works themselves have 

reared, 
And served in gold, and warmed with minivere. 
And ruling nobly, that He, not content 
Unless alone He reigneth, looks to bend 
Or break them in, like slaves to cry to Him, 
' What is Thy will with us, O Master dear?' 
Or else to eat of death ? 

" For my part, lords, 
I cannot think it : for my piety 
And reason, which I also share with you, 
Are my best lights, and ever counsel me, 
4 Believe not aught against thy God ; believe, 
Since thou canst never reach to do Him wrong, 
That He will never stoop to do thee wrong. 
Is He not just and equal, yea, and kind?' 
Therefore, O majesties, it is my mind, 
Concerning him ye wot of, thus to think 
The message is not like what I have learned. 
By reason and experience, of the God. 



328 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Therefore no message 'tis. The man is mad." 
Thereat the Leader laughed for scorn. "Hold, 

snake ; 
If God be just, there shall be reckoning days. 
We rather would He were a partial God, 
And, being strong, He sided with the strong. 
Turn now thy reason to the other side, 
And speak for that ; for as to justice, snake, 
We would have none of it." 

And Satan fawned : 
' ; My lord is pleased to mock at my poor wit ; 
Yet in my pious fashion I must talk : 
For say that God was wroth with man, and came 
And slew him, that should make an empty world, 
But not a better nation." 

This replied, 
Ct Truth, dragon, yet He is not bound to mean 
A better nation ; maybe, He designs, 
If none will turn again, a punishment 
Upon an evil one." 

And Satan cried, 
" Alas ! my heart being full of love for men, 
I cannot choose but think of God as like 
To me ; and yet my piety concludes, 
Since He will have your fear, that love alone 
Sufficeth not, and I admire, and say, 
' Give me, O friends, your love, and give to God 
Your fear.' " But they cried out in wrath and rage, 
u We are not strong that any we will fear, 
Nor specially a foe that means us ill." 

BOOK VII. 

And while he spoke there was a noise without; 
The curtains of the door were llunji aside, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 339 

And some with heavy feet bare in, and set 
A litter on the floor. 

The Master lay 
Upon it, but his eyes were dimmed and set ; 
And Japhet, in despairing weariness, 
Leaned it beside. He marked the mighty ones, 
Silent for pride of heart, and in his place 
The jewelled dragon ; and the dragon laughed, 
And subtly peered at him, till Japhet shook 
With rage and fear. The snaky wonder cried, 
Hissing, ''Thou brown-haired youth, come up to me, 
I fain would have thee for my shrine afar, 
To serve among an host as beautiful 
As thou : draw near." It hissed, and Japhet felt 
Horrible drawings, and cried out in fear, 
" Father ! O help, the serpent draweth me !" 
And struggled and grew faint, as in the toils 
A netted bird. But still his father lay 
Unconscious, and the mighty did not speak, 
But half in fear and half in wonderment 
Beheld. And yet again the dragon laughed, 
And leered at him and hissed ; and Japhet strove 
Vainly to take away his spell-set eyes, 
And moved to go to him, till piercingly 
Crying out, " God ! forbid it, God in heaven ! " 
The dragon lowered his head, and shut his eyes 
As feigning sleep ; and, suddenly released, 
He fell back staggering ; and at noise of it, 
And clash of Japhet' s weapons on the floor, 
And Japhet's voice crying out, "I loathe thee, snake ! 
I hate thee ! O, I hate thee ! " came again 
The senses of the shipwright ; and he, moved, 
And looking, as one 'mazed, distressfully 
Upon the mighty, said, tk One called on God: 
Where is my God? If God have need of me, 
Let him come down and touch my lips with strength, 
Or dying I shall die." 



33° 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



It came to pass, 
While, lie was speaking, that the curtains swayed : 
A rushing wind did move throughout the place, 
And all the pillars shook, and on the head 
Of Noah the hair was lifted, and there played 
A somewhat as it were a light, upon 
His breast ; then fell a darkness, and men heard 
A whisper as of one that spake. With that, 
The daunted mighty ones kept silent watch 
Until the wind had ceased and darkness fled. 
When it grew light, there curled a cloud of smoke 
From many censers where the dragon lay. 
It hid him. He had called his miuistrants, 
And bid them veil hiin thus, that none might look ; 
Also the folk who came with Noah had fled. 

But Noah was seen, for he stood up erect, 
And leaned on Japhet's hand. Then, after pause, 
The Leader said, " My brethren, it were well 
(For naught we fear) to let this sorcerer speak." 
And they did reach toward the man their staves, 
And cry with loud accord, " Hail, sorcerer, hail!" 

And he made answer, " Hail ! I am a man 

That is a shipwright. I was born afar 

To Lamech, him that reigns a king, to wit, 

Over the land of Jalal. Majesties, 

I bring a message, — lay you it to heart ; 

For there is wrath in heaven : my God is wroth. 

4 Prepare your houses, or I come,' saith He, 

'A Judge.' Now, therefore, say not in your hearts, 

' What have we done ? ' Your dogs may answer that, 

To make whom fiercer for the chase ye feed 

With captives whom ye slew not in the war, 

But saved alive, and living throw to them 

Daily. Your wives may answer that, whose babes 

Their firstborn ye do take and offer up 



A STORY OF DOOM. 331 

To this abhorred snake, while yet the milk 

Is in their innocent mouths, — your maiden babes 

Tender. Your slaves may answer that, — the gangs 

Whose eyes ye did put out to make them work 

By night unwitting (yea, by multitudes 

They work upon the wheel in chains). Tour friends 

May answer that, — (their bleached bones cry out), — 

For ye did wickedly, to eat their lands, 

Turn on their valleys, in a time of peace, 

The rivers, and they, choking in the night, 

Died unavenged. But rather (for I leave 

To tell of more, the time would be so long 

To do it, and your time, O mighty ones, 

Is short), — but rather say, ' We sinners know 

Why the Judge standeth at the door,' and turn 

While yet there may be respite, and repent. 

" 'Or else,' saith He that formed you, ' I swear, 

By all the silence of the time to come, 

By the solemnities of death, — yea, more, 

By Mine own power and love which ye have 

scorned, — 
That I will come. I will command the clouds, 
And raining they shall rain ; yea, I will stir 
With all my storms the ocean for your sake, 
And break for you the boundary of the deep. 

" ' Then shall the mighty mourn. 

" ' Should I forbear 
That have been patient? I will not forbear ! 
For yet,' saith He, ' the weak cry out ; for yet 
The little ones do languish ; and the slave 
Lifts up to Me his chain. I, therefore, I 
Will hear them. I by death will scatter you : 
Yea, and by death will draw them to My breast, 
And gather them to peace. 



332 A STORY OF DOOM. 

" ' But yet,' saith He, 
* Repent, and turn you. Wherefore will ye die? ' 
" Turn then, O turn, while yet the enemy 
Untamed of man fatefully moans afar ; 
For if ye will not turn, the doom is near. 
Then shall the crested wave make sport, and beat 
You mighty at your doors. Will ye be wroth? 
Will ye forbid it? Monsters of the deep 
Shall suckle in your palaces their young, 
And swim atween your hangings, all of them 
Costly with broidered work, and rare with gold 
And white and scarlet (there did ye oppress, — 
There did ye make you vile ;) but ye shall lie 
Meekly, and storm and wind shall rage above, 
And urge the weltering wave. 

" 'Yet,' saith thy God, 
' Son, ay, to each of you He saith, *0 son, 
Made in My image, beautiful and strong, 
Why wilt thou die ? Thy Father loves thee well- 
Repent and turn thee from thine evil ways, 
O son ! and no more dare the wrath of love. 
Live for thy Father's sake that formed thee. 
Why wilt thou die? ' Here will I make an end." 
Now ever on his dais the dragon lay, 
Feigning to sleep ; and all the mighty ones 
Were wroth, and chided, some against the woe, 
And some at whom the sorcerer they had named, — 
Some at their fellows, for the younger sort — 
As men the less acquaint with deeds of blood, 
And given to learning and the arts of peace 
(Their fathers having crushed rebellion out 
Before their time) — lent favorable ears. 
They said, " A man, or false or fanatic, 
May claim good audience if he fill our ears 
With what is strange : and we would hear again." 



A STORY OF DOOM. 333 



The Leader said, " An audience hath been given. 
The man hath spoken, and his words are naught ; 
A feeble threatened with a foolish threat, 
And it is not our manner that we sit 
Beyond the noonday ; " then they grandly rose, 
A stalwart crowd, and with their Leader moved 
To the tones of harping, and the beat of shawms, 
And the noise of pipes, away. But some were left 
About the Master ; and the feigning snake 
Couched on his dais. 

Then one to Japhet said, — 
One called "the Cedar Tree," — " Dost thou, too, 

think 
To reign upon our lands when we lie drowned ? " 
And Japhet said, " I think not, nor desire, 
Nor in my heart consent, but that ye swear 
Allegiance to the God, and live." Ke cried, 
To one surnamed "the Pine," — " Brother, behooves 
That deep we cut our names in yonder crag, 
Else when this youth returns, his sons may ask 
Our names, and he may answer, ' Matters not, 
For my part I forget them.' " 

Japhet said, 
" They might do worse than that, they might deny 
That such as you have ever been." With that 
They answered, " No, thou dost not think it, no ! " 
And Japhet, being chafed, replied in heat, 
" And wherefore? if ye say of what is sworn, 
4 He will not do it,' shall it be more hard 
For future men, if any talk on it, 
To say, 4 He did not do it? ' " They replied, 
With laughter, " Lo you ! he is stout with us. 
And yet he cowered before the poor old snake- 
Sirrah, when you are saved, we pray you now 
To bear our might in mind, — do, sirrah, do ; 



334 A STORY OF DOOM. 



And likewise tell your sons, ' '• The Cedar Tree" 
Was a good giant, for lie struck me Dot, 
Though he was young and full of sport, and though 
I taunted him.' 1 ' 

With that they also passed. 
But there remained who with the shipwright spoke, 
• How wilt thou certify to us thy truth?" 
And he related to them all his ways 
From the beginning : of the Voice that called ; 
Moreover, how the ship of doom was built. 

And one made answer, " Shall the mighty God 

Talk with a man of wooden beams and bars? 

No, thou mad preacher, no. If He, Eterne, 

Be ordering of His far infinitudes, 

And darkness cloud a world, it is but chance, 

As if the shadow of His hand had fallen 

On one that He forgot, and troubled it." 

Then said the Master, " Yet, — who told thee so?" 

And from his dais the feigning serpent hissed : 
" Preacher, the light within, it was that shined, 
And told him so. The pious will have dread 
Him to declare such as ye rashly told. 
The course of God is one. It likes not us 
To think of Him as being acquaint with changes 
It were beneath Him. Nay, the finished earth 
Is left to her great masters. They must rule ; 
They do ; and I have set myself between, — 
A visible thing for worship, sith His face 
(For He is hard) He showeth not to men. 
Yea, I have set myself 'twixt God and man, 
To be interpreter, and teach mankind 
A pious lesson by my piety. 
He loveth not, nor hateth, nor desires, — 
It were beneath Him." 



A STORY OF DOOM. 335 

And the Master said, 
;i Thou liest. Thou wouldst lie away the world, 
1C lie whom thou hast 'dared to speak against 
Would suffer it." "I may not chide with thee," 
It answered, u now ; but if there come such time 
As thou hast prophesied, as I now reign 
In all men's sight, shall my dominion then 
lieach to be mighty in their souls. Thou too 
Shalt feel it, prophet." And he lowered his head. 

Then quoth the Leader of the young men : t; Sir, 
We scorn 30U not ; speak further ; yet our thought 
First answer. Not but by a miracle 
Can this thing be. The fashion of the world 
We heretofore have never known to change ; 
And will God change it now? " 

lie then replied : 
" What is thy thought? There is no miracle? 
There is a great one, which thou hast not read, 
And never shalt escape. Thyself, O man, 
Thou art the miracle. Lo, if thou sayest, 
4 1 am one, and fashioned like the gracious world, 
Red clay is all my make, myself, my whole, 
And not my habitation,' then thy sleep 
Shall give thee wings to play among the rays 
O' the morning. If thy thought be, k I am one, — 
A spirit among spirits, — and the world. 
A dream my spirit dreameth of, my dream 
Being all,' the dominating mountains strong 
Shall not for that forbear to take thy breath, 
And rage with all their winds, and beat thee back, 
And beat thee down when thou wouldst set thy feet 
Upon their awful crests. Ay, thou thyself, 
Being in the world and of the world, thyself, 
Hast breathed in breath from Him that made the 
world. 



336 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Thou dost inherit, as thy Maker's son, 
That which He is, and that which He hath made : 
Thou art thy Father's copy of Himself, — ■ 
Thou art thy Father's miracle. 

"Behold 
He buildeth up the stars in companies ; 
He made for them a law. To man He said, 
4 Freely I give thee freedom.' What remains? 
O, it remains, if thou, the image of God, 
Wilt reason well, that thou shalt know His ways : 
But first thou must be loyal, — love, O man, 
Thy Father, — hearken when He pleads with thee, 
For there is something left of Him e'en now, — 
A witness for thy Father in thy soul. 
Albeit thy better state thou hast foregone. 

" Now, then, be still, and think not in thy soul, 

4 The rivers in their course forever run, 

And turn not from it. He is like to them 

Who made them.' Think the rather, ' With my 

foot 
I have turned the rivers from their ancient way 
To water grasses that were fading. What ! 
Is God my Father as the river wave, 
That yet descendeth, — like the lesser thing 
He made, and not like me, a living son, 
That changed the watercourse to suit his will ? " 

" Man is the miracle in nature. God 

Is the One Miracle to man. Behold, 

' There is a God,' thou sayest. Thou sayest well : 

In that thou sayest all. To Be is more 

Of wonderful than, being, to have wrought, 

Or reigned, or rested. 

" Hold then there, content; 
Learn that to love is the one way to know 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



337 



Or God or man : it is not love received 

That makcth man to know the inner life 

Of them that love him ; his own love bestowed 

Shall do it. Love thy Father, and no more 

His doings shall be strange. Thou shalt not fret 

At any counsel, then, that He will send, — 

No, nor rebel, albeit He have with thee 

Great reservations. Know, to Be is more 

Than to have acted ; yea, or, after rest 

And patience, to have risen and been wroth, 

Broken the sequence of an ordered earth, 

And troubled nations." 

Then the dragon sighed, 
" Foor fanatic," quoth he, " thou speakest well. 
Would I were like thee, for thy faith is strong, 
Albeit thy senses wander. . Yea, good sooth, 
My masters, let us not despise, but learn 
Fresh loyalty from this poor loyal soul. 
Let us go forth — (myself will also go 
To head you) — and do sacrifice ; for that, 
We know, is pleasing to the mighty God : 
But as for building many arks of wood, 
O majesties ! when He shall counsel you 
Himself, then build. What say you, shall it be 
An hundred oxen, — fat, well liking, white? 
An hundred? why, a thousand were not much 
To such as .you." Then Noah lift up his arms 
To heaven, and cried, " Thou aged shape of sin, 
The Lord rebuke thee." 

BOOK VIII. 

Then one ran, crying, while Niloiya wrought, 
" The Master cometh ! " and she went within 
To adorn herself for meeting him. And Shem 
Went forth and talked with Japhet in the field, 



33$ 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



And said, "Is it well, my brother?" He replied, 
kw Well ! and, 1 pray von, is it well at home?" 
But Shem made answer, " Can a house be well, 
If he that should command it bides afar? 
Yet well is thee, because a fair free maid 
Is found to wed thee ; and they bring her in 
This day at sundown. Therefore is much haste 
To cover thick with costly webs the floor, 
And pluck and cover thick the same with leaves 
Of all sweet herbs, — I warrant, ye shall hear 
No footfall where she treadeth ; and the seats 
Are ready, spread with robes ; the tables set 
With golden baskets, red pomegranates shred 
To fill them ; and the rubied censers smoke, 
Heaped up with ambergris and cinnamon, 
And frankincense and cedar." 

Japhet said, 
"I will betroth her to me straight ; " and went 
(Yet labored he with sore disquietude) 
To gather grapes, and reap and bind the sheaf 
For his betrothal. And his brother spake, 
" Where is our father? doth he preach to-day?" 
And Japhet answered, " Yea. He said to me, 
4 Go forward ; I will follow when the folk 
By 3-onder mountain-hold I shall have warned.' " 

And Shem replied, "How thinkest thou? — thine 

ears 
Have heard him oft." He answered, " I do think 
These be the last days of this old fair world." 

Then he did tell him of the giant folk : 
How they, than he, were taller by the head ; 
How one must stride that will ascend the steps 
That lead to their wide halls ; aud how they drave, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 339 

With manful shouts, the mammoth to the north ; 
And how the talking dragon lied and fawned, 
They seated proudly on their ivory thrones, 
And scorned him : and of their peaked hoods, 
And garments wrought upon, each with the tale 
Of him that wore it, — all his manful deeds 
(Yea, and about their skirts were effigies 
Of kings that they had slain ; and some, whose 

swords 
Many had pierced, wore vestures all of red, 
To signify much blood) : and of their pride 
He told, but of the vision in the tent 
He told him not. 

And when the}* reached the house, 
Niloiya met them, and to Japhet cried, 
••All hail, right fortunate ! Lo, I have found 
A maid. And now thou hast done well to reap 
The late ripe corn." So he went in with her, 
And she did talk with him right motherly : 
-- It hath been full told me how ye loathed 
To wed thy father's slave ; yea, she herself, 
Did she not all declare to me?" 

He said, 
-'Yet is thy damsel fair, and wise of heart." 
'- l^ea," quoth his mother ; " she made clear to me 
How ye did weep, my son, and ye did vow, 
' I will not take her ! ' Now, it was not I 
That wrought to have it so." And he replied, 
" I know it." Quoth the mother, "It is well ; 
For that same cause is laughter in my heart." 
" But she is sweet of language," Japhet said. 
" Ay," quoth Niloiya, " and thy wife no less 
Whom thou shalt wed anon, — forsooth, anon, — ■ 
It is a lucky hour. Thou wilt? " He said, 
" I will." And Japhet laid the slender sheaf 



34Q 



A STORY OF DOOM 



From off his shoulder, and he said, " Behold, 

My father ! " Then Niloiya turned herself, 

And lo ! the shipwright stood. " All hail ! " quoth 

she. 
And bowed herself, and kissed him on the mouth ; 
But while she spake with him, sorely he sighed ; 
And she did hang about his neck the robe 
Of feasting, and she poured upon his hands 
Clear water, and anointed him, and set 
Before him bread. 

And Japhet said to him, 
t( My father, my beloved, wilt thou yet 
Be sad because of scorning? Eat, this day ; 
For as an angel in their eyes thou art 
Who stand before thee." But he answered, " Peace \ 
Thy words are wide." 

And when Niloiya heard, 
She said, " Is this a time for mirth of heart 
And wine? Behold, I thought to wed my son, 
Even this Japhet ; but is this a time, 
When sad is he to whom is my desire, 
And lying under sorrow as from God? " 

He answered, " Yea, it is a time of times ; 
Bring in the maid. Niloiya said, " The maid 
That first I spoke on, shall not Japhet wed ; 
It likes not her, nor yet it likes not me. 
lint I have found another ; yea, good sooth, 
The damsel will not tarry, she will come 
With all her slaves by sundown." 

And she said, 
" Comfort thy heart, and eat : moreover, know 
How that thy great work even to-day is done. 
Sir, thy great ship is finished, and the folk 
(For I, according to thy will, have paid 



A STORY OF DOOM. 341 

All that was left us to them for their wage) 
Have brought, as to a storehouse, Hour of wheat, 
Honey and oil, — much victual; yea, and fruits, 
Curtains and household gear. And, sir, the}' say 
It is thy will to take it for thy hold, 
Our fastness and abode." He answered, "Yea, 
Else wherefore was it built? " She said, " Good sir, 
I pray you make us not the whole earth's scorn. 
And now, to-morrow in thy father's house 
Is a great feast, and weddings are toward ; 
Let be the ship, till after, for thy words 
Have ever been, ' If God shall send a flood, 
There will I dwell ;' I pray you therefore wait 
At least till He doth send it." 

And \\^ turned, 
And answered nothing. Now the sun was low 
While yet she spake ; and Japhet came to them 
In goodly raiment, and upon his arm 
The garment of betrothal. And with that 
A noise, and then brake in a woman-slave 
And Amarant. This, with folding of her hands, 
Did say full meekly, "If I do offend, 
Yet have not I been willing to offend ; 
For now this woman will not be denied 
Herself to tell her errand. 

And they sat. 
Then spoke the woman, " If I do offend, 
Pray you forgive the bond-slave, for her tongue 
Is for her mistress. ' Lo,' my mistress saith, 
' Put off thy bravery, bridegroom ; fold away, 
Mother, thy webs of pride, thy costly robes 
Woven of many colors. We have heard 
Thy master. Lo, to-day right evil things 
He prophesied to us that were his friends ; 
Therefore, my answer : — God do so to me ; 
Yea, God do so to me, more also, more 



342 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Than he did threaten, if my damsel's foot 
Ever draw nigh thy door.' " 

And when she heard, 
Niloiya sat amazed, in grief of soul. 
But Japhet came unto the slave, where low 
She bowed herself for fear. He said, " Depart; 
Say to thy mistress, 'It is well.'" With that 
She turned herself, and she made haste to flee, 
Lest any, for those evil words she brought, 
Would smite her. But the bondmaid of the house 
Lift up her hand and said, li If I offend, 
It was not of my heart : thy damsel knew 
Naught of this matter." And he held to her 
His hand and touched her, and said, " Amarant ! " 
And when she looked upon him, she did take 
And spread before her face her radiant locks, 
Trembling. And Japhet said, " Lift up thy face, 

fairest of the daughters, thy fair face ; 

For, lo ! the bridegroom standeth with the robe 
Of thy betrothal ! " — and he took her locks 
In his two hands to part them from her brow, 
And laid them on her shoulders ; and he said, 
" Sweet are the blushes of thy face," and put 
The robe upon her, having said, " Behold, 

1 have repented me ; and oft by night, 

In the waste wilderness, while all things slept, 
I thought upon thy words, for they were sweet. 
" For this I make thee free. And now thyself 
Art loveliest in mine eyes ; I look, and lo ! 
Thou art of beauty more than any thought 
I had concerning thee. Let, then, this robe, 
Wrought on with imagery of fruitful bough, 
And graceful leaf, and birds with tender eyes, 
Cover the ripples of thy tawny hair." 
So, when she held her peace, he brought her nigh 
To hear the speech of wedlock : ay, he took 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



343 



The golden cup of wine to drink with her, 
And laid the sheaf upon her arms. He said, 
" Like as my fathers in the older dajs 
Led home the daughters whom they chose, do I ; 
Like as they said, ' Mine honor have I set 
Upon thy head ! ' do I. Eat of my bread, 
Rule in my house, be mistress of my slaves, 
And mother of my children," 

And he brought 
The damsel to his father, saying, " Behold 
My wife ! I have betrothed her to myself ; 
I pray you, kiss her." And the Master did : 
He said, ;t Be mother of a multitude, 
And let them to their father even so 
Be found as he is found to me." 

With that 
She answered, " Let this woman, sir, find grace 
And favor in your sight." 

And Japhet said, 
" Sweet mother, I have wed the maid ye chose 
And brought me first. I leave her in thy hand ; 
Have care on her, till I shall come again 
And ask her of thee." So they went apart, 
He and his father, to the marriage feast. 

BOOK IX. 

The prayer of Noah. The man went forth by night 

And listened ; and the earth was dark and still, 

And he was driven of his great distress 

Into the forest ; but the birds of night 

Sang sweetly ; and he fell upon his face, 

And cried, " God, God ! Thy billows and Thy waves 

Have swallowed up my soul. 



344 A STORY OF DOOM. 



" Where is 1113- God? 
For I have somewhat yet to plead with Thee ; 
For I have walked the strands of Thy great deep, 
Heard the dull thunder of its rage afar, 
And its dread moaning. O, the field is sweet, — 
Spare it. The delicate woods make white their trees 
With blossom, — spare them. Life is sweet ; behold 
There is much cattle, and the wild and tame, 
Father, do feed in quiet, — spare them. 

"God! 
Where is my God? The long wave dotli not rear 
Her ghostly crest to lick the forest up, 
And like a chief in battle fall, — not yet. 
The lightnings pour not down, from ragged holes 
In heaven, the torment of their forked tongues, 
And, like fell serpents, dart and sting, — not yet. 
The winds awake not, with their awful wings 
To winnow, even as chaff, from out their track, 
All that withstandeth, and bring down the pride 
Of all things strong and all things high, — 

; ' Not yet. 
O, let it not be yet. Where is my God? 
How am I saved, if I and mine be saved 
Alone? I am not saved, for I have loved 
My country and my kin. Must I, Thy thrall, 
Over their lands be lord when they are gone ? 
I would not : spare them, Mighty. Spare Thyself, 
For Thou dost love them greatly, — and if not ..." 

Another praying unremote, a Voice 
Calm as the solitude between wide stars. 

" Where is my God, who loveth this lost world, — 
Lost from its place and name, but won for thee? 
Where is my multitude, my multitude, 
That I shall gather? " And white smoke went up 



A STORY OF DOOM. 345 



From incense that was burning, but there gleamed 

No light of fire, save dimly to reveal 

The whiteness rising, as the prayer of him 

That mourned. " My God, appear for me, appear ; 

Give me my multitude, for it is mine. 

The bitterness of death 1 have not feared, 

To-morrow shall Thy courts, O God, be full. 

Then shall the captive from his bonds go free, 

Then shall the thrall find rest, that knew not rest 

From labor and from blows. The sorrowful — 

That said of joy, * What is it?' and of songs, 

' We have not heard them ' — shall be glad and sing ; 

Then shall the little ones that knew not Thee, 

And such as heard not of Thee, see Thy face, 

And, seeing, dwell content." 

The prayer of Noah. 
He cried out in the darkness, "Hear, O God, 
Hear Him : hear this one ; through the gates of death, 
If life be all past praying for, O give 
To thy great multitude a way to peace ; 
Give them to Him. 

" But yet," said he, " O yet, 
If there be respite for the terrible, 
The proud, yea, such as scorn Thee, — and if not, 
Let not mine eyes behold their fall." 

He cried, 
'- Forgive. I have not done Thy work, Great Judge, 
With a perfect heart ; I have but half believed, 
While in accustomed language I have warned ; 
And now there is no more to do, no place 
For my repentance, yea, no hour remains 
For doing of that work again. O lost, 
Lost world ! " And while he prayed, the daylight 
dawned. 



346 A STORY OF DOOM. 

And Noah went up into the ship, and sat 
Before the Lord. And all was still ; and now 
In that great quietness the sun came up, 
And there were marks across it, as it were 
The shadow of a Hand upon the sun, — 
Three fingers dark and dread, and afterward 
There rose a white thick mist, that peacefully 
Folded the fair earth in her funeral shroud, — - 
The earth that gave no token, save that now 
There fell a little trembling under foot. 

And Noah went down, and took and hid his face 
Behind his mantle, saying, " I have made 
Great preparation, and it may be yet, 
Beside my house, whom I did charge to come 
This day to meet me, there may enter in 
Many that yesternight thought scorn of all 
My bidding." And because the fog was thick, 
He said, ''Forbid it, Heaven, if such there be, 
That they should miss the way." And even then 
There was a noise of weeping and lament : 
The words of them that were affrighted, yea, 
And cried for grief of heart. There came to him 
The mother and her children, and they cried, 
" Speak, father, what is this? What hast thou done?' 
And when he lifted up his face, he saw 
Japhet, his well-beloved, where he stood 
Apart ; and Amarant leaned upon his breast, 
And hid her face, for she was sore afraid ; 
And lo ! the robes of her betrothal gleamed 
White in the deadly gloom. 

And at his feet 
The wives of his two other sons did kneel, 
And wring their hands. 

One cried, " O, speak to us 
We are affrighted ; we have dreamed a dream, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 347 



Each to herself. For me, I saw in mine 
The grave old angels, like to shepherds, walk, 
Much cattle following them. Thy daughter looked, 
And they did enter here." 

The other lay 
And moaned. " Alas ! father, for my dream 
Was evil : lo, I heard when it was dark, 
I heard two wicked ones contend for me. 
One said, ' And wherefore should this woman live, 
When only for her children, and for her, 
[s woe and degradation?' Then he laughed, 
The other crying, ' Let alone, O Prince ; 
Hinder her not to live and bear much seed, 
Because I hate her.' " 

But he said, " Rise up, 
Daughters of Noah, for I have learned no words 
To comfort you." Then spake her lord to her, 
" Peace ! or I swear that for thy dream myself 
Will hate thee also." 

And Niloiya said, 
" My sons, if one of 3*011 will hear my words, 
Go now, look out, and tell me of the day, 
How fares it?" 

And the fateful darkness grew, 
But Shem went up to do his mother's will ; 
And all was one as though the frighted earth 
Quivered and fell a-trembling ; then they hid 
Their faces every one, till he returned, 
And spake not. " Na3 T ," the3 T cried, " what hast 

thou seen? 
0, is it come to this?" He answered them, 
" The door is shut." 



343 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 

SAILING BEYOND SEAS. 

{Old Style.) 

Methought the stars were blinking bright, 

And the old brig's sails unfurled ; 
I said, " I will sail to my love this night 

At the other side of the world." 
I stepped aboard, — we sailed so fast, — 

The sun shot up from the bourn ; 
But a dove that perched upon the mast 
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. 
O fair dove ! O fond dove ! 

And dove with the white breast, 
Let me alone, the dream is my own, 
And my heart is full of rest. 

My true love fares on this great hill, 

Feeding his sheep for aye ; 
I looked in his hut, but all was still, 

My love was gone away. 
I went to gaze in the forest creek, 

And the dove mourned on apace ; 
No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek 
Rose up to show me his place. 
O last love ! O first love ! 

My love with the true heart, 
To think I have come to this your home, 
And yet — we are apart ! 

My love ! He stood at my right hand, 

His eyes were grave and sweet. 
Methought he said, "In this far land, 
Oh, is it thus we meet ? 



REMONSTRANCE. 349 



Ah, maul most dear, I am not here ; 

I have no place, — no part, — 
No dwelling more by sea or shore, 
But only in thy heart." 

O fair dove ! O fond dove ! 

Till night rose over the bourne, 
The dove on the mast, as we sailed fast, 
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. 



REMONSTRANCE. 

Daughters of Eve ! your mother did not well: 
She laid the apple in your father's hand, 

And we have read, O wonder! what befell, — 
The man was not deceived, nor yet could stand *, 

He chose to lose, for love of her, his throne, — 

With her could die, but could not live alone. 

Daughters of Eve ! he did not fall so low, 
Nor fall so far, as that sweet woman fell : 

For something better, than as gods to know, 
That husband in that home left off to dwell : 

For this, till love be reckoned less than lore, 

Shall man be first and best for evermore. 

Daughters of Eve ! it was for your dear sake 
The world's first hero died an uncrowned king ; 

For God's great pity touched the grand mistake, 
And made his married love a sacred thing : 

For yet his nobler sous, if aught be true, 

Find^ the lost Eden in their love to you. 



35o SONG FOR THE NIGHT OF 



SONG FOR THE NIGHT OF CHRIST'S RESUR- 
RECTION. 

(An Humble Imitation.') 
" And birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave." 

It is the noon of night, 

And the world's Great Light 
Gone ont, she widow-like doth carry her : 

The moon hath veiled her face, 

Nor looks on that dread place 
Where He lieth dead in sealed sepulchre ; 

And heaven and hades, emptied, lend 
Their flocking multitudes to watch and wait the end, 

Tier above tier they rise, 

Their wings new line the skies, 
And shed out comforting light among the stars ; 

But they of the other place 

The heavenly signs deface, 
The gloomy brand of hell their brightness mars; 

Yet high they sit in throned state, — 
It is the hour of darkness to them dedicate. 

And first and highest set, 

Where the black shades are met, 
The lord of night and hades leans him down ; 

His gleaming eyeballs show 

More awful than the glow 
Which hangeth by the points of his dread crown ; 

And at his feet, where lightnings play, 
The fatal sisters sit and weep, and curse their day. 



CHRIST'S RESURRECTION. 351 

Lo ! one, with eyes all wide, 

As she were sight. denied, 
Sits blindly feeling at her distaff old : 

One, as distraught with woe, 

Letting the spindle go, 
Her starry-sprinkled gown doth shivering fold ; 

And one right mournful hangs her head, 
Complaining, ' ' Woe is me ! I may not cut the thread. 

"All men, of every birth, 
Yea, great ones of the earth, 
Kings and their councillors, have I drawn down ; 
But I am held of Thee, — 
Why dost Thou trouble me, 
To bring me up, dead King, that keep'st Thy 
crown ? 
Yet for all courtiers hast but ten 
Lowly, unlettered, Galilean fishermen. 

" Olympian heights are bare 

Of whom men worshipped there, 
Immortal feet their snows may print no more ; 

Their stately powers below 

Lie desolate, nor know 
This thirty years Thessalian grove or shore ; 

But I am elder far than they ; — 
Where is the sentence writ that I must pass away? 

" Art thou come up for this, 

Dark regent, awful Dis ? 
And hast thou moved the deep to mark our ending? 

And stirred the dens beneath 

To see us eat of death, 
With all the scoffing heavens toward us bending? 

Help ! powers of ill, see not us die ! " 
But neither demon dares, nor angel deigns, reply. 



35 2 SONG FOR THE NIGHT OF 

Her sisters, fallen on sleep, 

Fade in the upper deep, 
i^id their grim lord sits on, in doleful trance ; 

Till her black veil she rends, 

And with her death-shriek bends 
Downward the terrors of her countenance ; 

Then, whelmed in night and no more seen, 
They leave the world a doubt if ever such have been, 

And the winged armies twain 

Their awful watch maintain ; 
They mark the earth at rest with her Great D«ad ; 

Behold, from Antres wide, 

Green Atlas heave his side ; 
His moving woods their scarlet clusters shed, 

The swathing coif his front that cools, 
And tawny lions lapping at his palm-edged pools. 

Then like a heap of snow, 
Lying where grasses grow, 
See glimmering, while the moony lustres creep, 
Mild-mannered Athens, dight 
In dewy marbles white, 
Among her goddesses and gods asleep ; 
And, swaying on a purple sea, 
The many moored galleys clustering at her quay. 

Also, 'neath palm-trees' shade, 
Amid their camels laid, 
The pastoral tribes with all their flocks at rest ; 
Like to those old-world folk 
With whom two angels broke 
The bread of men at Abram's courteous 'quest, 
When, listening as they prophesied, 
His desert princess, being reproved, her laugh denied. 

Or from the Morians' land 
See worshipped Nilus bland, 



CHRIST'S RESURRECTION. 353 

Taking the silver road he gave the world, 

To wet his ancient shrine 

AVith waters held divine, 
And touch his temple steps with wavelets curled, 

And list, ere darkness change to gray, 
Old minstrel-throated Memnon chanting in the day» 

Moreover, Indian glades, 

Where kneel the sun-swart maids, 
On Gunga's flood their votive flowers to throw, 

And launch i' the sultry night 

Their burning cressets bright, 
Most like a fleet of stars that southing go, 

Till on her bosom prosperously 
She floats them shining forth to sail the lulled sea. 

Nor bend they not their eyn 

Where the watch-fires shine, 
By shepherds fed, on hills of Bethlehem : 

They mark, in goodly wise, 

The city of David rise, 
The gates and towers of rare Jerusalem ; 

And hear the 'scaped Kedron fret, 
And night dews dropping from the leaves of Olivet 

But now the setting moon 

To curtained lands must soon, 
In her obedient fashion, minister ; 

She first, as loath to go, 

Lets her last silver flow 
Upon her Master's sealed sepulchre ; 

And trees that in the garden spread, 
She kisseth all for sake of His low-lying head, 

Then 'neath the rim goes down ; 
And night with darker frown 
Sinks on the fateful garden watched loner ; 



354 SONG FOR THE NIGHT OF 

When some despairing eves, 
Far in the murky skies, 
The unwished waking by their gloom foretell ; 
And blackness up the welkin swings, 
And drinks the mild effulgence from celestial wings. 

Last, with amazed cry, 
The hosts asunder fly, 
Leaving an empty gulf of blackest hue ; 
Whence straightway shooteth down, 
By the Great Father thrown, 
A mighty ahgel, strong and dread to view ; 
And at his fall the rocks are rent, 
The waiting world doth quake with mortal tremble- 
ment ; 

The regions far and near 

Quail with a pause of fear, 
More terrible than aught since time began ; 

TI12 winds, that dare not fleet, 

Drop at his awful feet, 
And in its bed wails the wide ocean ; 

The flower of dawn forbears to blow, 
And the oldest running river cannot skill to flow. 

At stand, by that dread place, 
He lifts his radiant face, 
And looks to heaven with reverent love and fear ■ 
Then, while the welkin quakes, 
And mattering thunder breaks, 
And lightnings shoot and ominous meteors drear-. 
And all the daunted eartn doth moan, 
He from the doors of death rolls back the sealed 
stone. — 

— Tn regal quiet deep, 

Lo, One new waked from sleep ! 



CHRIST'S RESURRECTION. 355 



Behold, He standeth in the rock-hewn door ! 

Thy children shall not die, — 

Peace, peace, thy Lord is by ! 
He liveth ! — they shall live forevermore. 

Peace ! lo, He lifts a priestly hand, 
And blesseth all the sons of men in every land. 

Then with great dread and wail, 
Fall down, like storms of hail, 
The legions of the lost in fearful wise. 
And they whose blissful race 
Peoples *he better place 
Lift up their wings to cover their fair eyes, 
And through the waxing saffron brede, 
Till they are lost in light, recede, and yet recede. 

So while the fields are dim, 
And the red sun his rim 
First heaves, in token of his reign benign, 
All stars the most admired, 
Into their blue retired, 
Lie hid, —the faded moon forgets to shine, — 
And, hurrying down the sphery way. 
Night flies and sweeps her shadow from the paths of 
day. 

But look ! the Saviour blest, 

Calm after solemn rest, 
Stands in the garden 'neath His olive-boughs ; 

The earliest smile of day 

Doth on His vesture play. 
And light the majesty of His still brows ; 

While angels hang with wings outspread, 
Holding the new-won crown above His saintly head. 



35 6 SONG OF MARGARET. 



SONG OF MARGARET. 

Ay, I saw her, we have met, — 

Married eyes, how sweet they be, — 
Are you happier, Margaret, 

Than you might have been with me? 
Silence ! make no more ado ! 

Did she think I should forget? 
Matters nothing, though I knew, 

Margaret, Margaret. 

Once those eyes, full sweet, full shy, 

Told a certain thing to mine ; 
What they told me 1 put by, 

O, so careless of the sign. 
Such an easy thing to take, 

And I did not want it then ; 
Fool ! I wish my heart would break, 

Scorn is hard on hearts of men. 

Scorn of self is bitter work, — 

Each of us has felt it now : 
Bluest skies she counted mirk, 

Self -betrayed of eyes and brow ; 
As for me, I went my way, 

And a better man drew nigh, 
Fain to earn, with long essay, 

What the winner's hand threw by. 

Matters not in deserts old, 

What was born, and waxed, and yearned, 
Year to year its meaning told, 

I am come, — its deeps are learned, — 
Come, but there is naught to say, — 

Married eyes with mine have met, 
Silence ! O, I had my day, 

Margaret, Margaret. 



SONG OF THE GOING AWAY. 



357 



SONG OF THE GOING AAV AY. 

" Old man, upon the green liillsi.de, 
With yellow flowers besprinkled o'er, 

How long in silence wilt thou bide 
At this low stone door? 

" I stoop : within 'tis dark and still ; 

But shadowy paths methinks there be, 
And lead they far into the hill ? " 

"Traveller, come and see." 

" 'Tis dark, 'tis cold, and hung with gloom; 

I care not now within to stay ; 
For thee and me is scarcely room, 

I will hence away." 

" Not so, not so, thou youthful guest, 
Thy foot shall issue forth no more : 

Behold the chamber of thy rest, 
And the closing door ! " 

" O, have I 'scaped the whistling ball, 
And striven on smoky fields of fight, 

And scaled the 'leaguered city's wall 
In the dangerous night ; 

" And borne my life unharmed still 

Through foaming gulfs of yeasty spray, 

To yield it on a grassy hill 
At the noon of day ? ' ' 

" Peace ! Say thy prayers, and go to sleep, 
Till some time, One my seal shall break, 

And deep shall answer unto deep, 
When He cryeth, ' Awake ! ' " 



35 8 A LILY AND A LUTE. 



A LILY AND A LUTE. 

(Song of the uncommunicated Ideal.) 

i. 

I opened the eyes of my sou). 

And behold, 
A white river-lily : a lily awake, and aware, — 
For she set her face upward, — aware how in scarlet 

and gold 
A long wrinkled cloud, left behind of the wandering 
air, 
Lay over with fold upon fold, 
With fold upon fold. 

And the blushing sweet shame of the cloud made 
her also ashamed, 

The white river-lily, that suddenly knew she was 
fair ; 

And over the far-away mountains that no man hath 
named, 

And that no foot hath trod, 

Flung down out of heavenly places, there fell, as it 
were, 

A rose-bloom, a token of love, that should make 
them endure, 

Withdrawn in snow-silence forever, who keep them- 
selves pure, 

And look up to God. 

Then I said, " In rosy air, 
Cradled on thy reaches fair, 
While the blushing early ray 
Whitens into perfect day, 
River-lily, sweetest known, 
Art thou set for me alone? 



A LILY AND A LUTE. 



!59 



Na} T , but I will bear thee far, 
Where yon clustering steeples are, 
And the bells ring out o'erhead, 
And the stated prayers are said ; 
And the busy farmer's pace, 
Trading in the market-place ; 
And the country lasses sit 
By their butter, praising it ; 
And the latest news is told, 
While the fruit and cream are sold ; 
And the friendly gossips greet, 
Up and down the sunny street. 
For," I said, " I have not met, 
White one, any folk as yet 
Who would send no blessing up, 
Looking on a face like thine ; 
For thou art as Joseph's cup, 
And by thee might they divine. 

" Nay ! but thou a spirit art ; 
Men shall take thee in the mart 
For the ghost of their best thought, 
Raised at noon, and near them brought 
Or the prayer they made last night, 
Set before them all in white." 

And I put out my rash hand, 
For I thought to draw to land 
The white lily. Was it fit 
Such a blossom should expand, 
Fair enough for a world's wonder, 
And no mortal gather it? 
No. I strove, and it went under, 
And I drew, but it went down ; 
And the water-weeds' long tresses, 
And the overlapping cresses, 
Sullied its admired crown. 



3 6o A LILY AND A LUTE. 

Then along the river strand, 
Trailing, wrecked, it came to land, 
Of its beauty half despoiled, 
And its snowy pureness soiled : 
! I took it in my hand, — 
You will never see it now, 
White and golden as it grew : 
No, I cannot show it you, 
Nor the cheerful town endow 
With the freshness of its brow. 
If a royal painter, great 
With the colors dedicate 
To a dove's neck, a sea-bight 
And the flickerings over white 
Mountain summits far away, — 
One content to give his mind 
To the enrichment of mankind, 
And the laying up of light 
In men's houses, — on that day, 
Could have passed in kingly mood, 
Would he ever have endued 
Canvas with the peerless thing, 
In the grace that it did bring, 
And the light that o'er it flowed, 
With the pureness that it showed, 
And the pureness that it meant? 
Could he skill to make it seen 
As he saw? For this, I ween, 
He were likewise impotent. 

ii. 
I opened the doors of my heart. 

And behold, 
There was music within and a song, 
And echoes did feed on the sweetness, repeating it 
lono-. 



A LILY AND A LUTE. 361 

I opened the doors of my heart. And behold, 
There was music that played itself out in seolian 

notes ; 
Then was heard, as a far-away bell at long intervals 
toiled, 
That murmurs and floats, 
And presently dieth, forgotten of forest and wold, 
And comes in all passion again and a tremblement 
soft, 
That maketh the listener full oft 
To whisper, "Ah! would I might hear it forever 
and aye, 
When I toil in the heat of the day, 
When I walk in the cold." 

I opened the door of my heart. And behold, 
There was music within, and a song. 
But while I was hearkening, lo, blackness without, 

thick and strong, 
Came up and came over, and all that sweet fluting 
was drowned, 
I could hear it no more ; 
For the welkin was moaning, the waters were stirred 
on the shore, 
And trees in the dark all around 
Were shaken. It thundered. " Hark, hark! there 

is thunder to-night ! 
The sullen long wave rears her head, and comes 

down with a will ; 
The awful white tongues are let loose, and the stars 

are all dead ; — 
There is thunder ! it thunders ! and ladders of light 

Run up. There is thunder ! " I said, 
" Loud thunder! it thunders ! and up in the dark 

overhead, 
A down-pouring cloud (there is thunder !) , a down- 
pouring cloud 



362 A LILY AXD A LUTE. 

Hails out her fierce message, and quivers the deep 

in its bed, 
And cowers the earth held at bay ; and they mutter 

aloud, 
And pause with au ominous tremble, till, great in 

their rage, 
The heavens and earth come together, and meet with 

a crash ; 
And the fight is so fell as if Time had come down 
with a flash, 
And the story of life was all read, 
And the Giver had turned the last page. 

Nor their bar the pent water-floods lash, 
And the forest trees give out their language austere 
with great age ; 
And there flieth o'er moor and o'er hill, 
And there heaveth at intervals wide, [subside. 

The long sob of nature's great passion, as loath to 
Until quiet drop down on the tide, 
And mad echo hath moaned herself still. 

Lo ! or ever I was 'ware, 

In the silence of the air, 
Through ray heart's wide-open door, 
Music floated forth once more, 
Floated to the world's dark rim, 
And looked over with a hymn ; 
Then came home with flutings fine, 
And discoursed in tones divine 
Of a certain grief of mine ; 
And went downward and went in, 
Glimpses of my soul to win, 
And discovered such a deep 
That I could not choose but weep, 
For it lay, a land-locked sea, 
Fathomless and dim to me. 



A LILY AND A LUTE. 363 



O the song ! It came and went, 
Went and came. 

I have not learned 
Half the lore whereto it yearned, 
Half the magic that it meant. 
Water booming in a cave ; 
Or the swell of some long wave, 
Setting in from unrevealed 
Countries ; or a foreign tongue, 
Sweetly talked and deftly sung, 
While the meaning is half sealed ; 
May be like it. You have heard 
Also ; — can you find a word 
For the naming of such song? 
No ; a name would do it wrong, 
You have heard it in the night, 
In the dropping rain's despite, 
In the midnight darkness deep, 
When the children were asleep, 
And the wife — no, let that be ; 
She asleep ! She knows right well 
What the song to you and me, 
While we breathe, can never tell ; 
She hath heard its faultless flow, 
Where the roots of music grow. 
While I listened, like young birds, 
Hints were fluttering ; almost words, - 
Leaned and leaned, and nearer came ; 
Everything had changed its name. 
Sorrow was a ship, I found, 
Wrecked with them that in her are, 
On an island richer far 
Than the port where they were bound. 
Fear was but the awful boom 
Of the old great bell of doom, 



364 A LILY AND A LUTE. 



Tolling, far from earthly air, 
For all worlds to go to prayer. 
Fain, that to us mortal clings, 
But the pushing of our wings, 
That we have no use for yet, 
And the uprooting of our feet 
From the soil where they are set, 
And the land we reckon sweet. 
Love in growth, the grand deceit 
Whereby men the perfect greet ; 
Love in wane, the blessing sent 
To be (howsoe'er it went) 
Nevermore with earth content. 
O, full sweet, and O, full high, 
Ran that music up the sk} T ; 
But I cannot sing it you, 
More than I can make you view, 
With my paintings labial, 
Sitting up in awful row, 
White old men majestical, 
Mountains, in their gowns of snow, 
Ghosts of kings ; as my two eyes, 
Looking over speckled skies, 
See them now. About their knees, 
Half in haze, there stands at ease 
A great army of green hills, 
Some bareheaded ; and, behold, 
Small green mosses creep on some. 
Those be mighty forests old ; 
And white avalanches come 
Through von rents, where now distils 
Sheeny silver, pouring down 
To a tune of old renown, 
Cutting narrow pathways through 
Gentian belts of airy blue, 
To a zone where star wort blows, 
And long reaches of the rose. 



A LILY AND A LUTE. 



3 6 S 



So, that haze all left behind, 
Down the chestnut forests wind, 
Pass yon jagged spires, where yet 
Foot of man was never set ; 
Past a castle yawning wide, 
With a great breach in its side, 
To a nest-like valley, where, 
Like a sparrow's egg in hue, 
Lie two lakes, and teach the true 
Color of the sea-maid's hair. 

What beside ? The world beside ! 
Drawing down and down to greet 
Cottage clusters at our feet, — 
Every scent of summer tide, — 
Flowery pastures all aglow 
(Men and women mowing go 
Up and down them) ; also soft, 
Floating of the film aloft, 
Fluttering of the leaves alow. 
Is this told? It is not told. 
Where's the danger? where's the cold 
Slippery danger up the steep? 
Where yon shadow fallen asleep? 
Chirping bird and tumbling spray, 
Light, work, laughter, scent of hay 9 
Peace, and echo, where are the}'? 

Ah, they sleep, sleep all untold ; 
Memory must their grace unfold 
Silently ; and that high song 
Of the heart, it doth belong- 
To the hearers. Not a whit, 
Though a chief musician heard, 
Could he make a tune for it. 

Though a lute full deftly strung, 
And the sweetest bird e'er sung, 



366 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Could have tried it, — 0, the lute 
For that wondrous song- were mute, 
And the bird would do her part, 
Falter, fail, and break her heart, — • 
Break her heart, and furl her wings, 
On the unexpressive strings. 



GLADYS AXD HER ISLAXD. 
{On the Advantages of the Poetical Temperament) 

AN IMPERFECT FABLE WITH A DOUBTFUL MORAL. 

O happy Gladys ! I rejoice with her, 
For Gladys saw the island. 

It was thus : 
They gave a day for pleasure in the school 
Where Gladys taught ; and all the other girls 
Were taken out to picnic in a wood. 
But it was said, "We think it were not well 
That little Gladys should acquire a taste 
For pleasure, going about, and needless cbi.ige. 
It would not suit her station : discontent 
Might come of it ; and all her duties now 
She does so pleasantly, that we were best 
To keep her humble." So they said to her, 
" Gladys, we shall not want you, all to-day. 
Look, you are free ; you need not sit at work : 
No, you may take a long and pleasant walk 
Over the sea-cliff, or upon the beach 
Among the visitors." 

Then Gladys blushed 
For joy, and thanked them. What! a holiday, 
A whole one, for herself! How good, how kind ! 
With that the marshalled carriages drove off; 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 367 

And Gladys, sobered with her weight of joy, 
Stole out beyond the groups upon the beach — 
The children with their wooden spades, the band 
That played for lovers, and the sunny stir 
Of cheerful life and leisure — to the locks, 
For these she wanted most, and there was time 
To mark them ; how like ruined organs prone 
They lay, or leaned their giant fluted pipes, 
And let the great white-crested reckless wave 
Beat out their booming melody. 

The sea 
Was filled with light ; in clear blue caverns curled 
The breakers, and they ran, and seemed to romp, 
As playing at some rough and dangerous game, 
While all the nearer waves rushed in to help, 
And all the farther heaved their heads to peep, 
And tossed the fishing-boats. Then Gladys laughed, 
And said, " O happy tide, to be so lost 
In sunshine, that one dare not look at it ; 
And lucky cliffs, to be so brown and warm ; 
And yet how lucky are the shadows, too, 
That lurk beneath their ledges. It is strange, 
That in remembrance though I lay them up, 
They are forever, when I come to them, 
Better than I had thought. O, something yet 
I had forgotten. Oft I say, ' At least 
This picture is imprinted ; thus and thus, 
The sharpened serried jags run up, run out, 
Layer on layer.' And I look — up — up — 
High, higher up again, till far aloft 
They cut into their ether — brawn, and clear, 
And perfect. And I, saying, ' This is mine, 
To keep,' retire ; but shortly come again, 
And they confound me with a glorious change. 
The low sun out of rain-clouds stares at them ; 
They redden, and their edges drip with — what? 



368 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

I know not, but 'tis red. It leaves no stain, 
For the next morning they stand up like ghosts 
Iu a sea-shroud, and fifty thousand mews 
Sit there, in long white files, and chatter on, 
Like silly school-girls in their silliest mood. 

k - There is the boulder where we always turn. 

O, I have longed to pass it ; now I will. 

What would they say ? for one must slip and spring ; 

4 Young ladies ! Gladys ! I am shocked. My dears, 

Decorum, if you please : turn back at once. 

Gladys, we blame you most ; you should have looked 

Before you.' Then they sigh, — how kind they are ! — 

4 What will become of you, if all your life 

You look a long way off? — look anywhere, 

And everywhere, instead of at your feet, 

And where they carry you ! ' Ah, well, I know 

It is a pity," Gladys said ; " but then 

We cannot all be wise : happy for me 

That other people are. 

" And yet I wish, — > 
For sometimes very right and serious thoughts 
Come to me, — 1 do wish that they would come 
When they are wanted ! — when 1 teach the sums 
On rainy days, and when the practising 
I count to, and the din goes on and on, 
Still the same tune and still the same mistake, 
Then I am wise enough : sometimes I feel 
Quite old. I think that it will last, and say, 
fc Now my reflections do me credit ! now 
I am a woman ! ' and I wish they knew 
How serious all my duties look to me, 
And how my heart hushed down and shaded lies, 
Just like the sea, when low, convenient clouds 
Come over, and drink all its sparkles up. 
But does it last? Perhaps, that very day, 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 369 

The front door opens : out we walk in pairs ; 

And I am so delighted with this world, 

That suddenly has grown, being new washed, 

To such a smiling, clean, and thankful world, 

And with a tender face shining through tears, 

Looks up into the sometime lowering sky, 

That has been angry, but is reconciled, 

And just forgiving her, that I, — that I, — 

O, I forget myself : what matters how ! 

And then I hear (but always kindly said) 

Some words that pain me so, — but just, but true: 

1 For if 3'our place in this establishment 

Be but subordinate, and if your birth 

Be lowly, it the more behooves — Well, well, 

No more. We see that you are sorry.' Yes ! 

I am always sorry then ; but now, — O, now, 

Here is a bight more beautiful than all." 

" And did they scold her, then, my pretty one? 
And did she want to be as wise as they, — 
To bear a bucklered heart and priggish mind? 
Ay, you may crow ; she did ! but no, no, no, 
The night-time will not let her ; all the stars 
Say nay to that ; the old sea laughs at her. 
Why, Gladys is a child ; she has not skill 
To shut herself within her own small cell, 
And build the door up, and to say, ' Poor me ! 
I am a prisoner ; ' then to take hewn stones, 
And, having built the windows up, to say, 
k O, it is dark ! there is no sunshine here ; 
There never has been.' " 

Strange ! how very strange ! 
A woman passing Gladys with a babe, 
To whom she spoke these words, and only looked 
Upon the babe, who crowed and pulled her curls, 
And never looked at Gladys, never once. 



370 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

" A simple child," she added, and went by, 

" To want to change her greater for their less ; 

But Gladys shall not do it, no, not she ; 

We love her — don't we ? — far too well for that." 

Then Gladys, flushed with shame and keen surprise, 

" How could she be so near, and I not know? 

And have I spoken out my thought aloud? 

I must have done, forgetting. It is well 

She walks so fast, for I am hungry now, 

And here is water cantering down the cliff, 

And here a shell to catch it wich, and here 

The round plump buns they gave me, and the fruit. 

Now she is gone behind the rock. O, rare 

To be alone ! " So Gladys sat her down, 

Unpacked her little basket, ate and drank, 

Then pushed her hands into the warm dry sand, 

And thought the earth was happy, and she too 

Was going round with it in happiness, 

That holiday. " What was it that she said?" 

Quoth Gladys, cogitating ; " they were kind, 

The words that woman spoke. She does not know ! 

' Her greater for their less,' — it makes me laugh, — ■ 

But yet," sighed Gladys, '* though it must be good 

To look and to admire, one should not wish 

To steal their virtues, and to put them on, 

Like feathers from another wing; beside, 

That calm, and that grave consciousness of worth, 

When all is said, would little suit with me, 

Who am not worthy. When our thoughts are born, 

Though they be good and humble, one should mind 

How they are reared, or some will go astray 

And shame their mother. Cain and Abel both 

Were only once removed from innocence. 

Why did I envy them? That was not good ; 

Yet it began with my humility." 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



37* 



But as she spake, lo, Gladys raised her eyes, 

And right before her, on the horizon's edge, 

Behold, an island ! First, she looked away 

Along the solid rocks and steadfast shore, 

For she was all amazed, believing not, 

And then she looked again, and there again 

Behold, an island ! And the tide had turned., 

The milky sea had got a purple rim, 

And from the rim that mountain island rose, 

Purple, with two high peaks, the northern peak 

The higher, and with fell and precipice, 

It ran down steeply to the water's brink ; 

But all the southern line was long and soft, 

Broken with tender curves, and, as she thought, 

Covered with forest or with sward. But, look ! 

The sun was on the island ; and he showed 

On either peak a dazzling cap of snow. 

Then Gladys held her breath ; she said, "Indeed, 

Indeed it is an island : how is this, 

I never saw it till this fortunate 

Rare holiday?" And while she strained her eyes, 

She thought that it began to fade ; but not 

To change as clouds do, only to withdraw 

And melt into its azure ; and at last, 

Little by little, from her hungry heart, 

That longed to draw things marvellous to itself, 

And yearned towards the riches and the great 

Abundance of the beauty God hath made, 

It passed away. Tears started in her eyes, 

And when they dropt, the mountain isle was gone 

The careless sea had quite forgotten it, 

And all was even as it had been before. 

And Gladys wept, but there was luxury 
In her self-pity, while she softly sobbed, 
" O, what a little while ! I am afraid 
I shall forget that purple mountain isle, 



372 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

The lovely hollows atween her snow-clad peaks, 

The grace of her upheaval where she lay 

Well up against the open. O, my heart, 

Now I remember how this holiday 

Will soon be done, and now my life goes on 

Not fed ; and only in the noonday walk 

Let to look silently at what it wants, 

Without the power to wait or pause awhile, 

And understand and draw within itself 

The richness of the earth. A holiday ! 

How few I have ! I spend the silent time 

At work, while all their pupils are gone home, 

And feel myself remote. They shine apart ; 

They are great planets, 1 a little orb ; 

My little orbit far within their own 

Turns, and approaches not. But yet, the more 

I am alone when those I teach return ; 

For they, as planets of some other sun, 

Not mine, have paths that can but meet my ring 

Once in a cycle. O, how poor I am ! 

I have not got laid up in this blank heart 

Any indulgent kisses given me 

Because I had been good, or, yet more sweet, 

Because my childhood was itself a good 

Attractive thing for kisses, tender praise, 

And comforting. . An orphan-school at best 

Is a cold mother in the winter time 

('Twas mostly winter when new orphans came), 

An un regardful mother in the spring. 

t; Yet once a year (I did mine wrong) we went 
To gather cowslips. How we thought on it 
Beforehand, pacing, pacing the dull street, 
To that one tree, the only one we saw 
From April, — if the cowslips were in bloom 
So early ; or, if not, from opening May 
Even to September. Then there came the feast 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 373 

At Epping. If it rained that day, it rained 
For a whole year to us ; we could not think 
Of fields and hawthorn hedges, and the leaves 
Fluttering, but still it rained, and ever rained. 

" Ah, well, but I am here ; but I have seen 
The gay gorse bushes in their flowering time; 
I know the scent of bean-fields ; I have heard 
The satisfying murmur of the main." 

The woman ! she came round the rock again 

With her fair baby, and she sat her down 

By Gladys, murmuring, "Who forbade the grass 

To grow by visitations of the dew? 

Who said in ancient time to the desert pool, 

4 Thou slialt not wait for angel visitors 

To trouble thy still water ! ' Must we bide 

At home? The lore, beloved, shall fly to us 

On a pair of sumptuous wings. Or may we breathe 

Without? O, we shall draw to us the air 

That times and mystery feed on. This shall lay 

Unchidden hands upon the heart o' the world, 

And feel it beating. Rivers shall run on, 

Full of sweet language as a lover's mouth, 

Delivering of a tune to make her youth 

More beautiful than wheat when it is green. 

" What else ? — (0, none shall envy her !) The rain 

And the wild weather will be most her own, 

And talk with her o' nights ; and if the winds 

Have seen aught wondrous, they will tell it her 

In a mouthful of strange moans, — will bring from far, 

Her ears being keen, the lowing and the mad, 

Masterful tramping of the bison herds, 

Tearing down headlong with their bloodshot eyes, 

In savage rifts of hair ; the crack and creak 

Of ice-floes in the frozen sea, the cry 



374 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



Of the white bears, all in a dim blue world 

Mumbling their meals by twilight ; or the rock 

And majesty of motion, when their heads 

Primeval trees toss in a sunny storm, 

And hail their nuts down on unweeded fields. 

No holidays," quoth she ; " drop, drop, O, drop, 

Thou tired skylark, and go up no more ; 

You lime-trees, cover not your head with bees, 

Nor give out your good smell. She will not look ; 

No, Gladys cannot draw your sweetness in, 

For lack of holidays." So Gladys thought, 

" A most strange woman, and she talks of me." 

With that a girl ran up : "Mother," she said, 

" Come out of this brown light, I pray you now, 

It smells of fairies." Gladys thereon thought, 

" The mother will not speak to me, perhaps 

The daughter may," and asked her courteously, 

"What do the fairies smell of? " But the girl 

With peevish pout replied, " You know, you know." 

" Not I," said Gladys ; then she answered her, 

"Something like buttercups. But, mother, come, 

And whisper up a porpoise from the foam, 

Because I want to ride." 

Full slowly, then. 
The mother rose, and ever kept her eyes 
Upon her little child. " You freakish maid," 
Said she, "now mark me, if I call you one, 
You shall not scold nor make him take you far." 

• k 1 only want — you know I only want," 
The girl replied — " to go and play awhile 
Upon the sand by Lagos." Then she turned 
And muttered low, " Mother, is this the girl 
Who saw the island? " But the mother frowned. 
"When may she go to it?" the daughter asked. 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 375 

And Gladys, following them, gave all her mind 
To hear the answer. kt When she wills to go ; 
For yonder comes to shore the ferry-boat." 
Then Gladys turned to look, and even so 
It was ; a ferry-boat, and far away 
Reared in the offing, lo, the purple peaks 
Of her loved island. 

Then she raised her arms, 
And ran toward the boat, crying out, " O rare, 
The island ! fair befall the island ; let 
Me reach the island." And she sprang on board, 
And after her stepped in the freakish maid 
And the fair mother, brooding o'er her child ; 
And this one took the helm, and that let go 
The sail, and off they flew, and furrowed up 
A flaky hill before, and left behind 
A sobbing, snake-like tail of creamy foam ; 
And dancing hither, thither, sometimes shot 
Toward the island ; then, when Gladys looked, 
Were leaving it to leeward. And the maid 
Whistled a wind to come and rock the craft, 
And would be leaning down her head to mew 
At cat-fish, then lift out into her lap 
And dandle baby-seals, which, having kissed, 
She flung to their sleek mothers, till her own 
Rebuked her in good English, after cried, 
" Luff, luff, we shall be swamped." " I will not luff," 
Sobbed the fair mischief; " you are cross to me." 
"For shame!" the mother shrieked; "luff, luff 

my dear ; 
Kiss and be friends, and thou shaft have the fish 
With the curly tail to ride on." So she did, 
And presently, a dolphin bouncing up, 
She sprang upon his slippery back, — " Farewell," 
She laughed, was off, and all the sea grew calm. 



376 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Then Gladys was much happier, and was 'ware 

In the smooth weather that this woman talked 

Like one in sleep, and murmured certain thoughts 

Which seemed to be like echoes of her own. 

She nodded, u Yes, the girl is going now 

To her own island. Gladys poor? Not she ! 

Who thinks so? Once I met a man in white, 

Who said to me, ' The thing that might have been 

Is called, and questioned why it hath not been ; 

And can it give good reason, it is set 

Beside the actual, and reckoned in 

To fill the empty gaps of life' Ah, so 

The possible stands by us ever fresh, 

Fairer than aught which any life hath owned, 

And makes divine amends. Now this was set 

Apart from kin, and not ordained a home ; 

An equal ; — and not suffered to fence in 

A little plot of earthly good, and say, 

'Tis mine ; but in bereavement of the part, 

O, yet to taste the whole, — to understand 

The grandeur of the stoiy, not to feel 

Satiate with good possessed, but evermore 

A healthful hunger for the great idea, 

The beaut} 7 and the blessedness of life. 

" Lo, now, the shadow ! " quoth she, breaking ofi% 

" We are in the shadow." Then did Gladys turn. 

And, O, the mountain with the purple peaks 

Was close at hand. It cast a shadow out, 

And they were in it : and she saw the snow, 

And under that the rocks, and under that 

The pines, and then the pasturage ; and saw 

Numerous dips, and undulations rare, 

Running down seaward, all astir with lithe 

Long canes, and lofty feathers ; for the palms 

And spice trees of the south, nay, every growth, 

Meets in that island. 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 377 

So that woman ran 
The boat ashore, and Gladys set her loot 
Thereon. Then all at once much laughter rose ; 
Invisible folk set up exultant shouts, 
k - It all belongs to Gladys ; " and she ran 
And hid herself among the nearest trees 
And panted, shedding tears. 

So she looked round, 
And saw that she was in a banyan grove, 
Full of wild peacocks, — pecking on the grass, 
A flickering mass of eyes, blue, green, and gold, 
Or reaching out their jewelled necks, where high 
They sat in rows along the boughs. No tree 
Cumbered with creepers let the sunshine through, 
But it was caught in scarlet cups, and poured 
From these on amber tufts of bloom, and dropped 
Lower on azure stars. The air was still, 
As if awaiting somewhat, or asleep, 
And Gladys was the only thing that moved, 
Excepting, — no, they were not birds, — what then? 
Glorified rainbows with a living soul? 
While they passed through a sunbeam they were seen, 
Not otherwhere, but they were present yet 
In shade. They were at work, pomegranate fruit 
That lay about removing, — purple grapes, 
That clustered in the path, clearing aside. 
Through a small spot of light would pass and go, 
The glorious happy mouth aud two fair eyes 
Of somewhat that made rustlings where it went ; 
But when a beam would strike the ground sheer down, 
Behold them ! they had wings, and they would pass 
One after other with the sheeny fans, 
Bearing them slowly, that their hues were seen, 
Tender as russet crimson dropt on snows, 
Or where they turned flashing with gold and dashed 
With purple glooms. And they had feet, but these 



GLADYS AXD HER ISLAND. 

Did barely touch the ground. And they took heed 

Not to disturb the waiting quietness j 

Nor rouse up fawns, that slept beside their dams; 

Nor the fair leopard, with her sleek paws laid 

Across her little drowsy cubs ; nor swans, 

That, floating, slept upon a glassy pool ; 

Nor rosy cranes, all slumbering in the reeds, 

With heads beneath their wings. For this, you know 

Was Eden. She was passing through the trees 

That made a ring about it, and she caught 

A glimpse of glades beyond. All she had seen 

Was nothing to them ; but words are not made 

To tell that tale. No wind was let to blow. 

And all the doves were bidden to hold their peace. 

Why? One was working in a valley near, 

And none might look that way. It was under-.'. 

That lie had nearly ended that His work ; 

For two shapes met, and one to other spake. 

Accosting him with, " Prince, what worker. 

Who whispered, " Lo! He fashionetb red el 

And all at once a little trembling stir 

Was felt in the earth, and every creature woke. 

And laid its head down, listening. It was knoi 

Then that the work was done ; the new-made ki 

Had risen, and set his feet upon his realm, 

And it acknowledged hirn. 

But i i j her path 
Came some one that withstood her. and he said, 

•• What dost thou here?" Then she did turn and 

colored spirits, through the gi* 

Tren ing 1 01 i\ \ -11 with I 

Till - forth of those thick banyan-tp 

I set her feet upon the L88, 

And felt the common 



GLADYS AND HEh ISLAND. 379 



Yet onct beyond. 
She could not choose font east a backward glance. 

The lovely matted growth stood like a wall. 

And means of entering were not evident, — 

The gap had closed. But Gladys laughed for joy ; 

She said. " Remoteness and a multitude 

Of years are counted nothing here. Behold, 

To-day I have been in Eden. 0. it blooms 

In my own island." 

And she wand-red on. 
Thinking, until she reached a place of palms, 
And all the earth was sandy where she walked,— 
oandy and dry. — strewed with papyrus-kaves. 
Old idols, rings and pottery, painted lids 
Of mummies (for perhaps it was the way 
That leads to dead old Egypt), and withal 
Excellent sunshine cut out sharp and clear 
The hot prone pillars, and the carven plinths. — 
Stone lotos cnps, with petals dipped in sand. 
And wieked gods, and sphinxes bland, who sat 
And smiled upon the ruin. how still ! 
Hot. blank, illuminated with the clear 
Stare of an unveiled sky. The dry stiff leaves 
Of palm-trees oever rustled, and the soul 
Of that dead ancientry was itself dead. 
She was above her ankles in the sand. 
When she beheld a rocky road. and. lo ! 
It bare in it the ruts of chariot win 
Which erst had carried to their pagan prayers 
The brown old Pharaohs : for the ruts led on 
To a great cliff, that either was a cliff 
Or some dread shrine in ruins- — partly reared 
In front of that same cliff, and partly hewn. 
Or excavate within its heart. Great heaps 
Of sand and stones on either side there lay : 
And. as the girl drew on. rose out from each, 



380 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

As from a ghostly kennel, gods unblest, 
Dog-headed, and behind them winged things 
Like angels ; and this carven multitude 
Hedged in, to right and left, the rock}* road. 

At last, the cliff, — and in the cliff a door 
Yawning : and she looked in, as down the throat 
Of some stupendous giant, and beheld 
No floor, but wide', worn flights of steps, that led 
Into a dimness. When the e3 T es could bear 
That change to gloom, she saw flight after flight, 
Flight after flight, the worn, long stair go down, 
Smooth with the feet of nations dead and gone. 
So she did enter ; also she went down 
Till it was dark, and yet again went down, 
Till, gazing upward at that yawning door, 
It seemed no larger, in its height remote,- 
Than a pin's head. But while, irresolute, 
She doubted of the end, yet farther down 
A slender ray of lamplight fell awa} T 
Along the stair, as from a door ajar : 
To this again she felt her way, and stepped 
Adown the hollow stair, and reached the light ; 
But fear fell on her, fear ; and she forbore 
Entrance, and listened. Ay ! 'twas even so, — 
A sigh ; the breathing as of one who slept 
And was disturbed. So she drew back awhile, 
And trembled ; then her doubting hand she laid 
Against the door, and pushed it ; but the light 
Waned, faded, sank ; and as she came within — 
Hark, hark ! A spirit was it, and asleep? 
A spirit doth not breathe like clay. There hung 
A cresset from the roof, and thence appeared 
A flickering speck of light, and disappeared ; 
Then dropped along the floor its elfish flakes, 
That fell on some one resting, in the gloom,— 
Somewhat, a spectral shadow, then a shape 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 381 

That loomed. It was a heifer, ay, and white, 
Breathing and languid through prolonged repose. 

Was it a heifer? all the marble floor 
Was milk-white also, and the cresset paled, 
And straight their whiteness grew confused and 
mixed. 

But when the cresset, taking heart, bloomed out, — 
The whiteness, — and asleep again ! but now 
It was a woman, robed, and with a face 
Lovely and dim. And Gladys while she gazed 
Murmured, u O terrible ! I am afraid 
To breathe among these intermittent lives, 
That fluctuate in mystic solitude, 
And change and fade. Lo ! where the goddess sits 
Dreaming on her dim throne ; a crescent moon 
She wears upon her forehead. Ah ! her frown 
Is mournful, and her slumber is not sweet. 
What dost thou hold, Isis, to thy cold breast? 
A baby god with linger on his lips, 
Asleep, and dreaming of departed sway? 
Thy son. Hush, hush ; he knoweth all the lore 
And sorcery of old Egypt ; but his mouth 
He shuts ; the secret shall be lost with him, 
He will not tell." 

The woman coming down ! 
" Child, what art thou doing here ? " the woman said ; 
" What wilt thou of Dame Isis and her bairn?'* 
(Ay, ay, we see thee breathing in thy shroud, — 
Thy pretty shroud, all frilled and furbeloived.) 
The air is dim with dust of spiced bones. 
I mark a crypt down there. Tier upon tier 
Of painted coffers fills it. What if we, 
Passing, should slip, and crash into their midst, — ■ 
Break the frail ancientry, and smothered lie, 



382 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Tumbled among the ribs of queens and kings, 
And all the gear ttiey took to bed with them ! 
Horrible ! let us hence. 

And Gladys said, 
" 0, the}* are rough to mount, those stairs ; " but she 
Took her and laughed, and up the mighty flight 
Shot like a meteor with her. " There," said she ; 
" The light is sweet when one has smeiled of graves, 
Down in unholy heathen gloom ; farewell." 
She pointed to a gateway, strong and high, 
Reared of hewn stones ; but, look ! in lieu of gate, 
There was a glittering cobweb drawn across, 
And on the lintel there were writ these words : 
" Ho, every one that cometh, I divide 
What hath been from what might be, and the line 
Hangeth before thee as a spider's web ; 
Yet, wouldst thou enter, thou must break the line 
Or else forbear the hill." 

The maiden said, 
" So, cobweb, I will break thee." And she passed 
Among some oak-trees on the farther side, 
And waded through the bracken round their bolls, 
Until she saw the open, and drew on 
Toward the edge o' the wood, where it was mixed 
With pines and heathery places wild and fresh. 
Here she put up a creature, that ran on 
Before her, crying, "Tint, tint, tint," and turned, 
Sat up, and stared at her with elfish eyes, 
Jabbering of gramarye, one Michael Scott, 
The wizard that wonned somewhere underground, 
With other talk enough to make one fear 
To walk in lonely places. After passed 
A man-at-arms, William of Deloraine ; 
He shook his head, " An' if I list to tell," 
Quoth he, " I know, but how it matters not :" 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 383 



Then crossed himself, and muttered of a clap 

Of thunder, and a shape in Amice gray, 

But still it mouthed at him, and whimpered, "Tint, 

Tint, tint." "There shall be wild work someday 

soon," 
Quoth he, " thou limb of darkness : he will come, 
Thy master, push a hand up, catch thee, imp, 
And so good Christians shall have peace, perdie/' 

Then Gladys was so frightened, that she ran, 

And got away, towards a grassy down, 

Where sheep' and lambs were feeding, with a boy 

To tend them. 'Twas the boy who wears that herb 

Called heart's-ease in his bosom, and he sang 

So sweetly to his (lock, that she stole on 

Nearer to listen. " O Content, Content, 

Give me," sang he, " thy tender company. 

I feed my flock among the myrtles ; all 

My lambs are twins, and they have laid them down 

Along the slopes of Beulah. Come, fair love, 

From the other side the river, where their harps 

Thou hast been helping them to tune. O come. 

And pitch thy tent by mine ; let me behold 

Thy mouth, — that even in slumber talks of peace, 

Thy well-set locks, and dove-like countenance." 

And Gladys hearkened, couched upon the grass, 

Till she had rested ; then did ask the boy, 

For it was afternoon, and she was fain 

To reach the shore, " Which is the path, I pray, 

That leads one to the water ? " But he said, 

" Dear lass, I only know the narrow way, 

The path that leads one to the golden gate 

Across the river." So she wondered on ; 

And presently her feet grew cool, the grass 

Standing so high, and thyme being thick and soft 

The air was full of voices, and the scent 



384 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



Of mountain blossom loaded ail its wafts ; 
For she was on the slopes of a goodly mount. 
And reared in such a sort that it looked down 
Into the deepest valleys, darkest glades, 
And richest plains o' the island. It was set 
Midway between the snows majestical 
And a wide level, such as men w r ould choose 
For growing wheat ; and some one said to her, 
"It is the hill Parnassus." So she walked 
Yet on its lower slope, and she could hear 
The calling of an unseen multitude 
To some upon the mountain, " Give us more ; " 
And others said, u We are tired of this old world : 
Make it look new again." Then there were some 
Who answered lovingly — (the dead yet speak 
From that high mountain, as the living do) ; 
But others sang desponding, " We have kept 
The vision for a chosen few : we love 
Fit audience better than a rough huzza 
From the unreasoning crowd." 

Then words came up ; 
" There was a time, you poets, was a time 
When all the poetry was ours, and made 
By some who climbed the mountain from our midst. 
We loved it then, we sang it in our streets. 
O, it grows obsolete ! Be you as they : 
Our heroes die and drop away from us ; 
Oblivion folds them 'neath her dusky wing, 
Fair copies wasted to the hungering world. 
Save them. We fall so low for lack of them, 
That many of us think scorn of honest trade, 
And take no pride in our own shops ; w r ho care 
Only to quit a calling, will not make 
The calling what it might be : who despise 
Their work, Fate laughs at, and doth let the work 
Dull, and degrade them." 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 385 

Then did Gladys smile : 
"Heroes ! " quoth she ; yet, now I think on it, 
There was the jolly goldsmith, brave Sir Hugh, 
Certes, a hero ready-made. Methinks 
I see him burnishing of golden gear, 
Tankard and charger, and a-muttering low, 
4 London is thirst}' ' — (then he weighs a chain) : 
4 'Tis an ill thing, my masters. I would give 
The worth of this, and many such as this, 
To bring it water.' 

" Ay, and after him 
There came up Guy of London, lettered son 
O' the honest lighterman. I'll think on him, 
Leaning upon the bridge on summer eves, 
After his shop was closed : a still, grave man, 
With melancholy e} T es. ' While these are hale,' 
He saith, when he looks down and marks the crowd 
Cheerly working ; where the river marge 
Is blocked with ships and boats ; and all the wharves 
Swarm, and the cranes swing in with merchandise, — 
4 While these are hale, 'tis well, 'tis very well. 
But, O good Lord,' saith he, ' when these are sick, — • 
I fear me, Lord, this excellent workmanship 
Of Thine is counted for a cumbrance then. 
A} 7 , ay, m}* hearties ! many a man of you, 
Struck down, or maimed, or fevered, shrinks away, 
And, mastered in that fight for lack of aid, 
Creeps shivering to a corner, and there dies.' 
Well, we have heard the rest. 

"Ah, next I think 
Upon the merchant captain, stout of heart 
To dare and to endure. ' Robert,' saith he 
(The navigator Knox to his manful son), 
4 I sit a captive from the ship detained ; 
This heathendry doth let thee visit her. 



3 86 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Remember, son, if thou, alas ! shouldst fail 

To ransom thy poor father, they are free 

As yet, the mariners : have wives at home, 

As I have ; ay, and liberty is sweet 

To all men. For the ship, she is not ours, 

Therefore, 'beseech thee, son, lay on the mate 

This my command, to leave me, and set sail. 

As for thyself — ' ' Good father,' saith the son ; 

; I will not, father, ask your blessing now, 

Because, for fair, or else for evil, fate, 

We two shall meet again.' And so they did. 

The dusky men, peeling off cinnamon. 

And beating nutmeg clusters from the tree, 

Ransom and bribe contemned. The good ship 

sailed, — 
The son returned to share his father's cell. 

tv O, there are many such. Would I had wit 
Their worth to sing ! " With that, she turned her 

feet. 
' L I am tired now," said Gladys, " of their talk 
Around this hill Parnassus. And, behold, 
A piteous sight, — an old, blind, graybeard king 
led by a fool with bells. Now this was loved 
Of the crowd below the hill ; and when he called 
For his lost kingdom, and bewailed his age, 
And plained on his unkind daughters, the}- were 

known 
To say, that if the best of gold and gear 
Could have bought him back his kingdom, and ma,dt> 

kind 
The hard hearts that had broken his erewhile, 
They would have gladly paid it from their store, 
Many times over. What is done is done, 
No help. The ruined majesty passed on. 
And, look you ! one who met her as she walked 
Showed her a mountain nymph lovely as light. 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 387 

Her name CEoone ; and she mourned and mourned, 
" O mother Ida," and she could not cease, 
No, nor be comforted. 

And aiter this, 
Soon tlure came by, arrayed in Norman cap 
And kirtle, an Arcadian villager, 
Who said, " I pray you, have you chanced to meet 
One Gabriel?" and she* sighed ; but Gladys took 
And kissed her hand : she could not answer her, 
Because she guessed the end. 

With that it drew 
To evening ; and as Gladys wandered on 
In the calm weather, she beheld the wave, 
And she ran down to set her feet again 
On the sea-margin, which was covered thick 
With white shell-skeletons. The sky was red 
t\s wine. The water played among bare ribs 
Of many wrecks, that lay half-buried there 
In the sand. She saw a cave, and moved thereto 
To ask her way, and one so innocent 
Came out to meet her, that, with marvelling mute, 
She gazed and gazed into her sea-blue eyes, 
For in them beamed the untaught ecstacy 
Of childhood, that lives on though youth be come, 
And love just born. 

She could not choose but name her shipwrecked 

prince, 
All blushing. She told Gladys man} 7 things 
That are not in the story, — things, in sooth, 
That Prospero her father knew. But now 
'Twas evening, and the sun dropped ; purple stripes 
In the sea were copied from some clouds that lay 
Out in the west. And lo ! the boat, and more, 
The freakish thing to take fair Gladys home 



388 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

She mowed at her, but Gladys took the helm : 

4w Peace, peace ! " she said ; kt be good : you shall not 

steer, 
For I am your liege ladj." Then she sang 
The sweetest song she knew all the way home. 

So Gladys set her feet upon the sand ; 
While in the sunset glory died away 
The peaks of that blest island. 

" Fare you well, 
My country, my own kingdom," then she said, 
" Till I go visit you again, farewell." 

She looked toward their house with whom she 

dwelt, — 
The carriages were coming. Hastening up, 
She was in time to meet them at the door, 
And lead the sleepy little ones within ; 
And some were cross and shivered, and her dames 
Were weary and right hard to please ; but she 
Felt like a beggar suddenly endowed 
With a warm cloak to 'fend her from the cold. 
" For, come what will," she said, " I had to-day, 
There is an island." 

THE MORAL. 

What is the moral? Let us think awhile 3 ' 

Taking the editorial We to help, 
It sounds respectable. 

The moral ; yes, 
We always read, when any fable ends, 
" Hence we may learn." A moral must be found. 
What do you think of this? " Hence we may learn 
That dolphins swim about the coast of Wales, 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 389 

And Admiralty maps should now be drawn 
13 y teacher-girls, because, their sight is keen, 
And the} 7 can spy out islands." Will that do? 
No, that is far too plain, — too evident. 

Perhaps a general moralizing vein — 

(We know we have a happy knack that way. 

We have observed, moreover, that young men 

Are fond of good advice, and so are girls ; 

Especially of that meandering kind, 

Which, winding on so sweetly, treats of all 

They ought to be and do and think and wear, 

As one may say, from creeds to comforters. 

Indeed, we much prefer that sort ourselves, 

80 soothing) . Good, a moralizing vein ; 

That is the thing ; but how to manage it? 

" Hence we may learn" if we be so inclined, 

That life goes best with those who take it best ; 

That wit can spin from work a golden robe 

To queen it in ; that who can paint at will 

A private picture gallery, should not crv 

For shillings that will let him in to look 

At some by others painted. Furthermore, 

Hence we may learn, you poets, — (and we count 

For poets all ivho ever felt that such 

They were, and all who secretly have known 

That such they could be; ay, moreover, all 

Who wind the robes of ideality 

About the bareness of their lives, and hang 

Comforting curtains, knit of fancy's yarn, 

Nightly betwixt them and, the frosty world), 

Hence we may learn, you poets, that of all 

We should be most content. The earth is given 

To us : we reign by virtue of a sense 

'Which lets us hear the rhythm of that old verse. 

The ring of that old tune whereto she spins. 

Humanity is given to us ; we reign 



39Q GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

By virtue of a sense which lets us in 
To know its troubles ere they have been told, 
And take them home and lull them into rest 
With mournfullest music. Time is given to us, — 
Time past, time future. Who, good sooth, beside 
Have seen it well, have walked this empty world 
When she went steaming, and from pulpy hills 
Have marked the spurting of their flamy crowns ? 

Have not we seen the tabernacle pitched, 
And peered between the linen curtains, blue, 
Purple, and scarlet, at the dimness there, 
And, frighted, have not dared to look again ? 
But, quaint antiquity ! beheld, we thought, 
A chest that might have held the manna pot, 
And Aaron's rod that budded. Ay, we leaned 
Over the edge of Britain, while the fleet 
Of Cresar loomed and neared ; then, afterwards, 
We saw fair Venice looking at herself 
In the glass below her, while her Doge went forth 
In all his bravery to the wedding. 

This, 
However, counts for nothing to the grace 
We wot of in time future : — therefore add, 
And afterwards have done : " Hence we may learn" 
That though it be a grand and comely thing 
To be unhappy — (and we think it is, 
Because so many grand and clever folk 
Have found out reasons for unhappiness, 
A.nd talked about uncomfortable things, — 
Low motives, bores, and shams, and hollowness, 
The hollowness o' the world, till we at last 
Have scarcely dared to jump or stamp, for fear, 
Being so hollow, it should break some day, 
And let us in). — vet. since we are not grand, 
O, not at all, and as for cleverness, 



SONGS' WITH PRELUDES. 391 

That may be or may not be, — it is well 
For us to be as happy as. we can ! 

Agreed : and with a word to the noble sex, 
As thus : We pray you carry not your guns 
On the full-cock ; we pray you set your pride 
In its proper place, and never be ashamed 
Of any honest calling, — let us add, 
And end : For all the rest, hold up your heads 
And mind your English. 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



WEDLOCK. 

The sun was streaming in : I woke, and said, 

" Where is my wife, — that has been made my wife 

Only this year?" The casement stood ajar: 

I did but lift my head : The pear-tree dropped, 

The great white pear-tree dropped with dew from 

leaves 
And blossom, under heavens of happy blue. 

My wife had wakened first, and had gone down 

Into the orchard. All the air was calm ; 

Audible humming filled it. At the roots 

Of peony bushes lay in rose-red heaps, 

Or snowy, fallen bloom. The crag-like hills 

W r ere tossing down their silver messengers, 

And two brown foreigners, called cuckoo- birds, 

Gave them good answer ; all things else were mute ■ 

An idle world lay listening to their talk, 

They had it to themselves. 



392 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

What ails my wife ? 
I know not if aught ails her ; though her step 
Tell of a conscious quiet, lest I wake. 
She moves atween the almond-boughs, and bends 
One thick with bloom to look on it. "0 love ! 
A little while thou hast withdrawn thyself, 
At unaware to thinkrthy thoughts alone : 
How sweet, and yet pathetic to 'my heart 
The reason. Ah! thou art no more thine own. 
Mine, mine, O love ! Tears gather 'neath my lids, — 
Sorrowful tears for thy lost liberty, 
Because it was so sweet. Thy liberty, 
That yet, O love, thou wouldst not have again. 
No ; all is right. But who can give, or bless, 
Or take a blessing, but there comes withal 
Some pain?" 

She walks beside the lily bed, 
And holds apart her gown ; she would not hurt 
The leaf -en folded buds, that have not looked 
Yet on the daylight. O, thy locks are brown, — 
Fairest of colors ! — and a darker brown 
The beautiful, clear, veiled, modest eyes. 
A bloom as of blush roses covers her [with her, 

Forehead, and throat, and cheek. Health breathes 
And graceful vigor. Fair and wondrous soul ! 
To think that thou art mine ! 

My wife came in, 
And moved into the chamber. As for me, 
I heard, but lay as one that nothing hears, 
&nd feigned to be asleep. 
i. 
The racing river leaped, and sang 

Full blithely in the perfect weather, 
All round the mountain echoes rang, 

For blue and green were glad together. 



SOATGS WITH PRELUDES. 393 

11. 

This rained out light from every part, 

And that with songs of joy was thrilling ; 

But in the hollow of 1113* heart, 

There ached a place that wanted filling. 

in. 

Before the road and river meet, 

And stepping-stones are wet and glisten, 

I heard a sound of laughter sweet, 
And paused to like it, and to listen. 

IV. 

I heard the chanting waters flow, 

The cushat's note, the bee's low humming, — 
Then turned the hedge, and did not know, — 

How could I ? — that my time was coming. 



A girl upon the nighest stone, 

Half doubtful of the deed, was standing, 
So far the shallow flood had flown 

Beyond the 'customed leap of landing. 



She knew not any need of me, 
Yet me she waited all unweeting ; 

We thought not I had crossed the sea, 
And half the sphere to give her meeting. 

VII. 

I waded out, her eyes I met, 

I wished the moments had been hours ; 
I took her in my arms, and set 

Her daintv feet among the flowers. 



394 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



Her fellow-maids in copse and lane, 

Ah ! still, methinks, I hear them calling 

The wind's soft whisper in the plain, 
The cushat's coo, the water's falling. 

IX. 

But now it is a year ago, 

But now possession crowns endeavor ; 
I took her in my heart, to grow 

And fill the hollow place forever. 



REGRET. 

O that word Regret ! * 

There have been nights and morns when we have 

sighed, 
" Let us alone, Regret ! We are content 
To throw thee all our past, so thou wilt sleep 
For aye." But it is patient, and it wakes ; 
It hath not learned to cry itself to sleep, 
But plaineth on the bed that it is hard. 

We did amiss when we did wish it gone 
And over : sorrows humanize our race ; 
Tears are the showers that fertilize this world, 
And memory of things precious keepeth warm 
The heart that once did hold them. 

They are poor 
That have lost nothing ; they are poorer far 
Who, losing, have forgotten ; they most poor 
Of all, who lose and wish they might forget. 
For life is one, and in its warp and woof 
There runs a thread of gold that glitters fair, 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 395 



And sometimes in the pattern shows most sweet 
Where there are sombre colors. It is true 
That we have wept. But O ! this thread of gold, 
We would not have it tarnish ; let us turn 
Oft and look back upon the wondrous web, 
And when it shineth sometimes we shall know 
That memory is possession. 

1. 

When I remember something which I had, 
But which is gone, and I must do without, 

I sometimes wonder how I can be glad, 
Even in cowslip time when hedges sprout ; 

It makes me sigh to think on it, — but yet 

My days will not be better days, should I forget. 



11. 



When I remember something promised me, 
But which I never had, nor can have now, 

Because the promiser we no more see 

In countries that accord with mortal vow ; 

When I remember this, I mourn, — but yet 

My happier days are not the days when 1 forget. 



LAMENTATION. 

I read upon that book, 
Which down the golden gulf doth let us look 
On the sweet days of pastoral majesty ; 
I read upon that book 
How, when the Shepherd Prince did flee 
(Red Esau's twin) , he desolate took 
The stone for a pillow : then he fell on sleep. 
And lo ! there was a ladder. Lo ! there hung 



396 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

A ladder from the star-place, and it clung 

To the earth : it tied her so to heaven ; and O 1 

There fluttered wings ; 
Then were ascending and descending things 

That stepped to him where he lay low ; 
Then up the ladder would a-drifting go 
This feathered brood of heaven, find show 
Small as white flakes in winter that are blown 
Together, underneath the great white throne. 

When I had shut the book, I said : 
" Now, as for me, my dreams upon my bed 

Are not like Jacob's dream ; 
Vet I have got it in my life ; yes, I, 
And many more : it doth not us beseem, 

Therefore, to sigh. 
Is there not hung a ladder in our sky? 
Yea ; and, moreover, all the way up on high 
Is thickly peopled with the prayers of men. 

We have no dream ! What then ? 
Like winged wayfarers the height they scale 
(By Him that offers them they shall prevail) — ■ 
The prayers of men. 
But where is found a prayer for me ; 

How should I pray? 
My heart is sick, and full of strife. 
I heard one whisper with departing breath, 
4 Suffer us not, for any pains of death, 

To fall from Thee/ 
But O, the pains of life ! the pains of life ! 
There is no comfort now, and naught to win, 
But yet, — I will begin." 

i. 
" Preserve to me my wealth," I do not say, 

For that is wasted away ; 
And much of it was cankered ere it went. 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 397 

44 Preserve to me my fcealth," I cannot &av, 

For that, upon a day, 
Went after other delights to banishment. 

11. 

What can I pray ? " Give me forgetf ulness ? " 

No, I would still possess 
Past away smiles, though present fronts be stern. 
44 Give me again my kindred?" Nay ; not so, 

Not idle prayers. We know 
They that have crossed the river cannot return. 

in. 

I do not pray, 4 ' Comfort me ! comfort me ! " 

For how should comfort be ? 
O — O that cooling mouth, — that little white head J. 
No ; but I pray, "If it be not too late, 

Open to me the gate, 
That I may find my babe when I am dead. 



44 Show me the path. I had forgotten Thee 

When I was happy and free, 
Walking down here in the gladsome light o' the sun; 
But now I come and mourn ; O set my feet 

In the road to Thy blest seat, 
And for the rest, O God, Thy will be done." 



DOMINION. 

When found the rose delight in her fair hue? 
Color is nothing to this world ; 'tis I 
That see it. Farther, I discover soul, 
That trees are nothing to their fellow-trees ; 



39 8 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

It is but I that love their stateliness, 
And I that, comforting my heart, do sit, 
A I noon beneath their shadow. I will step 
On the ledges of this world, for it is mine ; 
But the other world ye wot of shall go too , 
1 will carry it in my bosom. O my world, 
That was not built with clay ! 

Consider it 
(This outer world we tread on) as a harp, — 
A gracious instrument on whose fair strings 
We learn those airs we shall be set to play 
When mortal hours are ended. Let the wings, 
Man, of thy spirit move on it as wind, 
And draw forth melody. Why shouldst thou yet 
Lie grovelling ? More is won than e'er was lost: 
Inherit. Let thy day be to thy night 
A teller of good tidings. Let thy praise 
Go up as birds go up that, when they wake, 
Shake off the dew and soar. 

So take Joy home, 
And make a place in thy great heart for her, 
And give her time to grow, and cherish her ; 
Then will she come, and oft will sing to thee, 
When thou art working in the furrows ; ay, 
Or weeding in the sacred hour of dawn. 
It is a comely fashion to be glad, — 
Joy is the grace we say to God. 

Art tired ? 
There is a rest remaining. Hast thou sinned? 
There is a Sacrifice. Lift up thy head, 
The lovely world, and the over-world alike, 
Ring with a song eterne, a happy rede, 
" Thy Father loves thee." 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



399 



Yon moored mackerel fleet 

Hangs thick as a swarm of bees^ 

Or a clustering village street 

Foundationless built on the seas. 



The mariners ply their craft, 
Each set in his castle frail ; 

His care is all for the draught, 
And he dries the rain-beaten sail. 

in. 

For rain came down in the night 
And thunder muttered full' oft, 

But now the azure is bright, 
And hawks are wheeling aloft. 

IV. 

I take the land to my breast, 
In her coat with daisies fine ; 

For me are the hills in their best, 
And all that's made is mine. 

v. 

Sing high ! " Though the red sun dip. 
There yet is a da}" for me ; 

Nor youth I count for a ship 
That long ago foundered at sea. 

VI. 

" Did the lost love die and depart? 

Many times since we have met ; 
For I hold the years in my heart, 

And all that was — is yet. 



400 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

VII. 

" I grant to the king his reign ; 

Let us yield him homage due ; 
But over the lands there are twain, 

O king, I must rule as you. 

VIII. 

" I grant to the wise his meed, 
But his }?oke I will not brook, 

For G od taught me to read , — 
He lent me the world for a book.' 



FRIENDSHIP. 

ON A SUN-PORTRAIT OF HER HUSBAND, SENT BY HIS 
WIFE TO THEIR FRIEND. 

Beautiful e}*es, — and shall I see no more 

The living thought when it would leap from them, 

And play in all its sweetness 'neath their lids ? 

Here was a man familiar with fair heights 

That poets climb. Upon his peace the tears 

And troubles of our race deep inroads made, 

Yet life was sweet to him ; he kept his heart 

At home. Who saw his wife might well have 

thought, — 
" God loves this man. He chose a wife for him, — 
The true one t " sweet eyes, that seem to live, 
I know so much of you, tell me the rest! 
Eyes full of fatherhood and tender care 
For small, young children. Is a message here 
That you would fain have sent, but had not time ? 
If such there be, I promise, by long love 
And perfect friendship, by all trust that comes 
Of understanding, that I will not fail, 
No, nor delay to find it. 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 401 

O, my heart 
Will often pain me as for some strange fault, — 
Some grave defect in nature, — when I think 
How I, delighted, 'neath those olive-trees, 
Moved to the music of the tideless main, 
While, with sore weeping, in an island home 
They laid that much-loved head beneath the sod, 
And I did not know. 

1. 

I stand on the bridge where last we stood 
When youug leaves played at their best. 

The children called us from yonder wood, 
And rock-doves crooned on the nest. 

ir. 

Ah, yet you call, — in your gladness call, — 

And I hear your pattering feet ; 
It does not matter, matter at all, 

You fatherless children sweet, — 

in. 
It does not matter at all to*you, 

Young hearts that pleasure besets ; 
The father sleeps, but the world is new, 

The child of his love forgets. 

IV. 

I too, it may be, before they drop, 

The leaves that nicker to-day, 
Ere bountiful gleams make ripe the crop. 

Shall pass from my place away : 

v. 
Ere yon gray cygnet puts on her white, 

Or snow lies soft on the wold. 
Shall shut these eyes on the lovely light, 

And leave the storv untold. 



4 02 WINSTANLEY. 



Shall I tell it there? Ah, let that be, 
For the warm pulse beats so high ; 

To love to-day, and to breathe and see, 
To-morrow perhaps to die, — 



Leave it with God. But this I have known, 

That sorrow is over soon ; 
Some in dark nights, sore weeping alone, 

Forget by full of the moon. 

VIII. 

But if all loved, as the few can love, 
This world would seldom be well ; 

And who need wish, if he dwells above, 
For a deep, a long death-knell. 



IX. 

There are four or five, who, passing this place 
While they live will name me yet ; 

And when I am gone will think on my face, 
And feel a kind of regret. 



WINSTANLEY. 

THE APOLOGY. 



Quoth the cedar to the reeds and rushes, 

" Water-grass, you know not what I do; 
Know not of my storms, nor of my hushes, 
And — / knoiv not you." 



WINSTANLEY. 



403 



Quoth the reeds and rushes, " Wind! O waken ! 

Breathe, wind, and set our answer free, 
For ive have no voice, Of you forsaken, 
For the cedar-tree ." 

Quoth the earth at midnight to the ocean, 

" Wilderness of water, lost to view, 
Naught you are to me but sounds of motion / 
I am naught to you." 

Quoth the ocean, " Dawn! O fairest, clearest, 

Touch me with thy golden fingers bland; 
For I have no smile till thou apjpearest 
For the lovely land" 

Quoth the hero, dying, whelmed in glory, 

'-'-Many blame me, few have understood; 
Ah, my folk, to you I leave a story, — 
Make its meaning good." 

Quoth the folk, " Sing, poet! teach us, prove its, 

Surely we shall learn the meaning then; 
Wound us with a pain divine, O move us, 
For this man of men." 



Winstanley's deed, you kindly folk, 

With it I fill my lay, 
And a nobler man ne'er walked the world, 

Let his name be what it may. 

The good ship " Snowdrop" tarried long, 

Up at the vane looked he ; 
" Belike," he said, for the wind had dropped, 

" Sirs lieth becalmed at sea." 

The lovely ladies flocked within, 

And still would each one say, 
44 Good mercer, be the ships come up?" 

But still he answered " Na3*." 



4 o 4 



WINSTANLEY. 



Then stepped two mariners down the street, 

With looks of grief and fear ; 
44 Now, if Winstanley be your name, 

We bring you evil cheer ! 

"For the good ship ' Snowdrop' struck — she 
struck 

On the rock, — the Eddystone, 
And down she went with threescore men, 

We two being left alone. 

44 Down in the deep, with freight and crew, 

Past any help she lies, 
And never a bale has come to shore 

Of all thy merchandise." 

" For cloth o' gold and comely frieze," 

Winstanley said, and sighed, 
" For velvet coif, or costly coat, 

They fathoms deep may bide. 

44 O thou brave skipper, blithe and kind, 

O mariners, bold and true, 
Sorry at heart, right sorry am I, 

A-thinking of yours and you. 

44 Many long days Winstanley's breast 

Shall feel a weight within, 
For a waft of wind he shall be 'feared 

And trading count but sin. 

4w To him no more it shall be joy 

To pace the cheerful town, 
And see the lovely ladies gay 
1 Step on in velvet gown." 



WWSTANLEY. 



405 



The " Snowdrop' 1 sunk at Lammas tide, 

All under the yeasty spray ; 
On Christmas Eve the brig " Content " 

Was also cast away. 

He little thought o' New Year's night, 

So jolly as he sat then, 
While drank the toast and praised the roast 

The round-faced Aldermen, — 

While serving -lads ran to and fro, 

Pouring the ruby wine, 
And jellies trembled on the board, 

And towering pasties fine, — 

While loud huzzas ran up the roof 
Till the lamps did rock o'erhead, 

And holly boughs from rafters hung 
Dropped down their berries red, — 

He little thought on Plymouth Hoe, 

With every rising tide, 
How the wave washed in his sailor lads, 

And laid them side by side. 

There stepped a stranger to the board : 

" Now, stranger, who be ye?" 
He looked to right, he looked to left, 

And " Rest you merry," quoth he ; 

" For you did not see the brig go down, 

Or ever a storm had blown ; 
For you did not see the white wave rear 

At the rock, — the Eddy stone. 

" She drave at the rock with sternsails set; 

Crash went the masts in twain ; 
She staggered back with her mortal blow, 

Then leaped at it again. 



4 o6 WINSTANLEY. 



44 There rose a great cry, bitter and strong, 

The misty moon looked out ! 
And the water swarmed with seamen's heads, 

And the wreck was strewed about. 

" I saw her mainsail lash the sea 

As I clung to the rock alone ; 
Then she heeled over, and down she went, 

And sank like any stone. 

44 She was a fair ship, but all's one ! 

For naught could bide the shock." 
44 I will take horse," Winstanley said, 

44 And see this deadly rock ; 

" For never again shall bark o' mine 

Sail over the windy sea, 
Unless, by the blessing of God, for this 

Be found a remedy." 

Winstanley rode to Plymouth town 

All in the sleet and the uiow, 
And he looked around on shore and sound 

As he stood on Plymouth Hoe, 

Till a pillar of spray rose far away, 

And shot up its stately head, 
Reared and fell over, and reared again : 

" 'Tis the rock ! the rock ! " he said. 

Straight to the Mayor he took his way, 
" Good Master Mayor," quoth he, 

44 1 am a mercer of London town, 
And owner of vessels three, — 

44 But for your rock of dark renown, 

I had five to track the main." 
44 You are one of many," the old Mayor said, 

44 That on the rock complain. 



WINSTANLEY. 4 o 7 



"■ An ill rock, mercer ! your words ring right, 
Well with my thoughts they chime, 

For my two sons to the world to come 
It sent before their time." 

" Lend me a lighter, good Master Mayor, 
And a score of shipwrights free, 

For I think to raise a lantern tower 
On this rock o' destiny." . 

The old Mayor laughed, but sighed als6; 

" Ah, youth," quoth he, " is rash ; 
Sooner, young man, thou 'It root it out 

From the sea that doth it lash. 

" Who sails too near its jagged teeth, 

He shall have evil lot ; 
For the calmest seas that tumble there 

Froth like a boiling pot. 

" And the heavier seas few look on nigh, 
But straight they lay him dead ; 

A seventy-gun-ship, sir! — they'll shoot 
Higher than her mast-head. 

64 O, beacons sighted in the dark, 
They are right welcome things, * 

And pitchpots naming on the shore 
Show fair as angel wings. 

" Hast gold in hand? then light the land, 

It 'longs to thee and me ; 
But let alone the deadly rock 

In God Almighty's sea." 

Yet said he, " Nay, — I must away, 

On the rock to set m} T feet ; 
My debts are paid, my will I made, 

Or ever I did thee greet. 



4 o8 U'INSTANLEY. 

44 If I must die, then let me die 
By the rock and not elsewhere ; 

If I may live, let me live 

To mount my lighthouse stair." 

The old Mayor looked him in the face, 
And answered : '* Have thy way ; 

Thy heart is stout, as if round about 
It was braced with an iron stay : 

" Have thy will, mercer ! choose thy men, 
Put off from the storm-rid shore ; 

God with thee be, or I shall see 
Thy face and theirs no more." 

Heavily plunged the breaking wave, 

And foam flew up the lea, 
Morning and even the drifted snow 

Fell into the dark gray sea. 

Winstanley chose him men and gear ; 

He said, " My time I waste," 
For the seas ran seething up the shore, 

And the wrack drave on in haste. 

But twenty years he waited and more, 

Pacing the strand alone, 
Or ever he set his manly foot 

On the rock, — the Eddystone. 

Then he and the sea began their strife, 
And worked with power and might : 

Whatever the man reared up by day 
The sea broke down by night. 

He wrought at ebb with bar and beam. 

He sailed to shore at How ; 
And at iiis side, by that same tide, 

Came bar and beam alsd. 



WTNSTANLEY. 409 



44 Give in, give in," the old Mayor cried, 

44 Or thou wilt rue the day." 
" Yonder he goes," the townsfolk sighed, 

44 But the rock will have its way. 

44 For all his looks that are so stout, 

And his speeches brave and fair, 
He may wait on the wind, wait on the wave, 

But he'll build no lighthouse there." 

In fine weather and foul weather 

The rock his arts did flout, 
Through the long days and the short days, 

Till all that year ran out. 

With fine weather and foul weather 

Another year came in ; 
44 To take his wage," the workman said, 

44 We almost count a sin." 

Now March was gone, came April in, 

And a sea-fog settled down, 
And forth sailed he on a glassy sea, 

He sailed from Plymouth town. 

With men and stores he put to sea, 

As he was wont to do ; 
They showed in the fog like ghosts full faint, — 

A ghostly craft and crew. 

And the sea-fog lay and waxed alway, 

For a long eight days and more ; 
44 God help our men," quoth the women then ; 

44 For they bide long from shore." 

They paced the Hoe in doubt and dread : 
44 Where may our mariners be? " 

But the brooding fog lay soft as down 
Over the quiet sea. 



4 io WINSTANLEY. 

A Scottish schooner made the port, 

The thirteenth clay at e'en : 
44 As I am a man," the captain cried, 

44 A strange sight I have seen : 

44 And a strange sound heard, my masters all, 
At sea, in the fog and the ruin, 

Like shipwrights' hammers tapping low, 
Then loud, then low again. 

44 And a stately house one instant showed, 
Through a rift, on the vessel's lee ; 

What manner of creatures may be those 
That build upon the sea?" 

Then sighed the folk, 44 The Lord be praised ! " 
And they flocked to the shore amain ; 

All over the Hoe, that livelong night, 
Many stood out in the rain. 

It ceased, and the red sun reared his head, 

And the rolling fog did flee ; 
And, lo ! in the offing faint and far 

Winstanley 's house at sea ! 

In fair weather with mirth and cheer 

The stately tower uprose ; 
In foul weather, with hunger and cold, 

They were content to close ; 

Till up the stair Winstanley went, 

To fire the wick afar ; 
And Plymouth in the silent night 

Looked out, and saw her star. 

Winstanley set his foot ashore : 

Said he, 4i My work is done ; 
I hold it strong to last as long 

As aught beneath the sun. 



WINSTANLEY. 



411 



" But if it fail, as fail it may, 

Borne down with ruin and rout. 
Another than I shall Tear it high, 

And brace the girders stout. 

" A better than I shall rear it high, 

For now the way is plain, 
And though I were dead," Wiustanley said, 

" The light would shine again. 

" Yet were I fain still to remain, 

Watch in my tower to keep, 
And tend my light in the stormiest night 

That ever did move the deep ; 

" And if it stood, why, then, 'twere good, 

Amid their tremulous stirs, 
To count each stroke, when the mad waves broke 

For cheers of mariners. 

" But if it fell, then this were well, 

That I should with it fall; 
Since, for my part, 1 have built my heart 

In the courses of its wall. 

" Ay ! I were fain, long to remain, 

Watch in my tower to keep, 
And tend my light in the stormiest night 

That ever did move the deep." 

With that Win Stanley went his way, 

And left the rock renowned, 
And summer and winter his pilot star 

Hung bright o'er Plymouth Sound. 

But it fell out, fell out at last, 

That he would put to sea, 
To scan once more his lighthouse tower 

On the rock o' destiny. 



412 WINSTANLEY. 



And the winds broke, and the storm broke, 

And wrecks came plunging in ; 
None in the town that night lay down 

Or sleep or rest to win. 

The great mad waves were rolling graves, 

And each flung up its dead ; 
The seething flow was white below, 

And black the sky o'erheacl. 

And when the dawn, the dull, gray dawn, 

Broke on the trembling town, 
And men looked south to the harbor mouth, 

The lighthouse tower was down, — 

Down in the deep where he doth sleep 

Who made it shine afar, 
And then in the night that drowned its light ; 

Set, with his pilot star. 



Many fair tombs in the glorious glooms 

At Westminster they show; 
The brave and the great lie there in state : 

Winstanley lieth low. 



THE 

MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



THE 

MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

There are who give themselves to work for men,- 
To raise the lost, to gather orphaned babes 
And teach them, pitying of their mean estate, 
To feel for misery, and to look on crime 
With ruth, till they forget that they themselves 
Are of the race, themselves among the crowd 
Under the sentence and outside the gate, 
And of the family and in the doom. 
Cold is the world ; they feel how cold it is, 
And wish that they could warm it. Hard is life 
For some. They would that they could soften it ; 
And, in the doing of their work, the}' sigh 
As if it was their choice and not their lot ; 
And, in the raising of their prayer to God, 
They crave His kindness for the world He made, 
Till they, at last, forget that He, not they, 
Is the true lover of man. 



Now, in an ancient town, that had sunk low, — 
Trade having drifted from it, while there stayed 
Too many, that it erst had fed, behind, — 
There walked a curate once, at early day. 

It was the summer-time ; but summer air 
Came never, in its sweetness, down that dark 
And crowded alley, — never reached the door 
Whereat he stopped, — the sordid, shattered door. 



4i 6 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



He paused, and, looking right and left, beheld 
Dirt and decay, the lowering tenements 
That leaned toward each other ; broken panes 
Bulging with rags, and grim with old neglect : 
And reeking hills of formless refuse, heaped 
To fade and fester in a stagnant air. 
But he thought nothing of it : he had learned 
To take all wretchedness for granted, — he, 
Reared in a stainless home, and radiant yet 
With the clear hues of healthful English youth, 
Had learned to kneel by beds forlorn, and stoop 
Under foul lintels. He could touch, with hand 
Unshrinking, fevered fingers ; he could hear 
The language of the lost, in haunt and den, — 
So dismal, that the coldest passer-by 
Must needs be sorry for them, and, albeit 
They cursed, would dare to speak no harder words 
Than these, — " God help them ! " 

Ay ! a learned man 
The curate in all woes that plague mankind, — 
Too learned, for he was but young. His heart 
Had yearned till it was overstrained, and now 
He — plunged into a narrow slough ucblest, 
Had struggled with its deadly waters, till 
His own head had gone under, and he took 
Small joy in work he could not look to aid 
Its cleansing. 

Yet, by one right tender tie, 
Hope held him yet. The fathers coarse and dull, 
Vile mothers hard, and boys and girls profane, 
His soul drew back from. He had worked for 

them, — 
Work without joy : but in his heart of hearts, 
He loved the little children ; and, whene'er 
He heard their prattle innocent, and heard 
Their tender voices lisping sacred words 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN 417 

That he had taught them, — in the cleanly calm 
Of decent school, by decent matron held, — 
Then would he say, '* I' shall have pleasure yet, 
In these." 

But now, when he pushed back that door, 
And mounted up a flight of ruined stairs, 
He said not that. He said, kt Oh ! once I thought 
The little children would make bright for me 
The crown they wear who have won many souls 
For righteousness ; but oh, this evil place ! 
Hard lines it gives them, cold and dirt abhorred, — 
Hunger and nakedness, in lieu of love, 
And blows instead of care. 

" And so they die, 
The little children that I love, — they die, — . 
They turn their wistful faces to the wall, 
And slip away to God." 

With that, his hand 
He laid upon a latch and lifted it, 
Looked in full quietly, and entered straight. 
What saw he there? He saw a three-years child, 
That lay a-dying on a wisp of straw 
Swept up into a corner. O'er its brow 
The damps of death were gathering : all alone, 
Uncared for, save that by its side was set 
A cup, it waited. And the eyes had ceased 
To look on things at hand. He thought they gazed 
In wistful wonder, or some faint surmise 
Of coming change, — as though they saw the gate 
Of that fair land that seems to most of us 
Very far off. 

When he beheld the look, 
He said, " I knew, I knew how this would be ! 
Another! Ay, and but for drunken blows 



4i8 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



And dull fbrgetfiilness of infant need, 
This little one had lived." And thereupon 
The misery of it wrought upon him so, 
That, unaware, he wept. ! then it was 
That, in the bending of his manly head, 
It came between the child and that whereon 
He gazed, and, when the curate glanced again, 
Those dying e} 7 es, drawn back to earth once more, 
Looked up into his own, and smiled. 

He drew 
More near, and kneeled beside the small frail thing, 
Because the lips were moving ; and it raised 
Its baby hand, and stroked away its tears, 
And whispered, k ' Master ! master ! " and so died. 

Now, in that town there was an ancient church, 
A minister of old days which these had turned 
To parish uses : there the curate served. 
It stood within a quiet swarded Close, 
Sunny and still, and, though it was not far 
From those dark courts where poor humanity 
Struggled and swarmed, it seemed to wear its own 
Still atmosphere about it, and to hold 
That old-world calm within its precincts pure 
And that grave rest which modern life foregoes. 

When the sad curate, rising from his knees, 
Looked from the dead to heaven, — as, unaware, 
Men do when they would track departed life, — 
He heard the deep tone of the minster-bell 
Sounding for service, and he turned away 
So heavy at heart, that, when he left behind 
That dismal habitation, and came out 
In the clear sunshine of the minster-yard, 
He never marked it. Up the aisle he moved, 
With his own gloom about him ; then came forth, 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 419 

And read before the folk grand words and calm, — 
Words full of hope ; but into his dull heart 
Hope came not. As one talketh in a dream, 
And doth not mark the sense of his own words, 
He read ; and, as one walketh in a dream, 
He after walked toward the vestment-room, 
And never marked the way he went D3-, — no, 
Nor the gray verger that before him stood, 
The great church-keys depending from his hand, 
Ready to follow him out and lock the door. 

At length, aroused to present things, but not 
Content to break the sequence of his thought, 
Nor ready for the working day that held 
Its busy course without, he said, u Good friend, 
Leave me the keys : I would remain awhile." 
And, when the verger gave, he moved with him 
Toward the door distraught, then shut him out, 
And locked himself within the church alone. 
The minster-church was like a great brown cave, 
Fluted and fine with pillars, and all dim 
With glorious gloom ; but, as the curate turned, 
Suddenly shone the sun, — and roof and walls, 
Also the clustering shafts from end to end, 
Were thickly sown all over, as it were, 
With seedling rainbows. And it went and came 
And went, that sunny beam, and drifted up 
Ethereal bloom to flush the open wings 
And carven cheeks of dimpled cherubim. 
And dropped upon the curate as he passed, 
Amd covered his white raiment and his hair. 
Then did look down upon him from their place, 
High in the upper lights, grave mitred priests, 
And grand old monarchs in their flowered gowns 
And capes of miniver ; and therewithal 
(A veiling cloud gone by) the naked sun 



420 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

Smote with his burning splendor all the pile, 
And in there rushed, through half -translucent panes. 
A sombre glory as of rusted gold, 
Deep ruby stains, and tender blue and green, 
That made the floor a beauty and delight, 
Strewed as with phantom blossoms, sweet enough 
To have been wafted there the day they dropt 
Cn the flower-beds in heaven. 

The curate passed 
Adown the long south aisle, and did not think 
Upon this beauty, nor that he himself — 
Excellent in the strength of youth, and fair 
With all the majesty that noble work 
And stainless manners give — did add his part 
To make it fairer. 

In among the knights 
That lay with hands uplifted, by the lute 
And palm of many a saint, — 'neath capitals 
Whereon our fathers had been bold to carve 
With earthly tools their ancient childlike dream 
Concerning heavenly fruit and living bowers, 
And glad full-throated birds that sing up there 
Among the branches of the tree of life, — 
Through all the ordered forest of the shafts, 
Shooting on high to enter into light, 
That swam aloft, — he took his silent way, 
And in the southern transept sat him down, 
Covered his face, and thought. 

He said, " No pain. 
No passion, and no aching, heart o' mine, 
Doth stir within thee. Oh ! I would there did : 
Thou art so dull, so tired. I have lost 
I know not what. I see the heavens as lead : 
They tend not whither. Ah ! the world is bared 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 421 



Of her enchantment now : she is but earth 

And water. And, though much hath passed away, 

There may be more to go. I may forget 

The joy and fear that have been : there may live 

No more for me the fervency of hope 

Nor the arrest of wonder. 

" Once I said, 
6 Content will wait on work, though work appear 
Unfruitful.' Now I say, ' Where is the good? 
What is the good ? ' A lamp when it is lit 
Must needs give light ; but I am like a man 
Holding his lamp in some deserted place 
Where no foot passeth. Must I trim my lamp, 
And ever painfully toil to keep it bright, 
When use for it is none ? I must ; I will. 
Though God withhold my wages, I must work, 
And watch the bringin'g of my work to naught, -^ 
Weed in the vineyard through the heat o' the da^ 
And, overtasked, behold the weedy place 
Grow ranker yet in spite of me. 

"Oh! yet 
My meditated words are trodden down 
Like a little wayside grass. Castaway shells, 
Lifted and tossed aside by a plunging wave, 
Have no more force against it than have I 
Against the sweeping, weltering wave of life, 
That, lifting and dislodging me, drives on, 
And notes not mine endeavor." 

Afterward, 
He added more words like to these ; to wit, 
That it was hard to see the world so sad : 
He would that it were happier. It was hard 
To see the blameless overborne ; and hard 
To know that God, who loves the world, should yet 
Let it lie down in sorrow, when a smile 



4 22 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



From Him would make it laugh and sing, — a word 

From Him transform it to a heaven. He said., 

Moreover, " When will this be done? My life 

Hath not yet reached the noon, and I am tired ; 

And oh ! it may be that, uncomforted 

By foolish hope of doing good and vain 

Conceit of being useful, I may live, 

And it may be my duty to go on 

Working for years and years, for years and years." 

But, while the words were uttered, iu his heart 

There dawned a vague alarm. He was aware 

That somewhat touched him, and he lifted up 

His face. " I am alone," the curate said, — 

" I think I am alone. What is it, then? 

I am ashamed ! My raiment is not clean. 

My lips, — I am afraid they are not clean. 

M} r heart is darkened and unclean. Ah me, 

To be a man, and yet to tremble so ! 

Strange, strange ! " 

And there was sitting at his feet — 
He could not see it plainly — at his feet 
A very little child. And, while the blood 
Drave to his heart, he set his eye on it, 
Gazing, and, lo ! the loveliness from heaven 
Took clearer form and color. He beheld 
The strange, wise sweetness of a dimpled mouth, — 
The deep serene of eyes at home with bliss, 
And perfect in possession. So it spoke, 
tb My master ! " but he answered not a word ; 
And it went on : "I had a name, a name. 
lie knew my name ; but here they can forget." 
The curate answered : " Nay, I know thee well. 
I love thee. Wherefore art thou come? " it said, 
" They sent me ;" and he faltered, " Fold thy han> 
O most dear little one ! for on it gleams 
A gem that is so bright I cannot look 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN 423 

Thereon." It said, u When I did leave this world, 

That was a tear. But that was long ago ; 

For I have lived among the happy folk, 

You wot of, ages, ages." Then said he, 

tk Do they forget us, while beneath the palms 

They take their iufinite leisure ? " And, with eyes 

That seemed to muse upon him, looking up 

In peace, the little child made answer, 4i Nay ; " 

And murmured, in the language that he loved, 

" How is it that his hair is not 3-et white ; 

For I and all the others have been long 

Waiting for him to come." 

*' And was it long?" 
The curate answered, pondering, " Time being done. 
Shall life indeed expand, and give the sense, 
In our to-come, of infinite extension? " 
Then saith the child, " In heaven we children talk 
Of the great matters, and our lips are wise ; 
But here I can but talk with thee in words 
That here I knew." And therewithal, arisen, 
It said, " I pray you take me in your arms." 
Then, being afraid but willing, so he did ; 
And partly drew about the radiant child, 
For better covering its dread purity, 
The foldings of his gown. And he beheld 
Its beauty, and the tremulous woven light 
That hung upon its hair ; withal, the robe, 
' Whiter than fuller of this world can white,' 
That clothed its immortality. And so 
The trembling came again, and he was dumb, 
Repenting his uncleanness : and he lift 
His eyes, and all the holy place was full 
Of living things ; aigil some were faint and dim, 
As if they bore an intermittent life, 
Waxing and waning ; and they had no form, 
But drifted on like slowly trailed clouds, 



424 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN 



Or moving spots of darkness, with an eye 

Apiece. And some, in guise of evil birds, 

Came by in troops, and stretched their naked necks, 

And some were men-like, but their heads hung down ; 

And he said, " my God ! let me find grace 

Not to behold their faces, for I know 

They must be wicked and right terrible." 

But while he prayed, lo ! whispers ; and there moved 

Two shadows on the wall. He could not see 

The forms of them that cast them ; he could see 

Only the shadows as of two that sat 

Upon the floor, where, clad in women's weeds, 

They lisped together. •And he shuddered much : 

There was a rustling near him, and he feared 

Lest they should touch him, and he feel their touch. 

4 • It is not great," quoth one, " the work achieved. 

We do, and we delight to do, our best : 

But that is little ; for, my dear,*' quoth she, 

" This tower and town have been infested long 

With angels." — "Ay," the other made reply, 

" I had a little evil one, of late, 

That I picked up as it was crawling out 

O' the pit, and took and cherished in my breast. 

It would divine for me, and oft would moan, 

• Pray thee, no churches,' and it spake of this. 

"' But I was harried once, — thou know'st by whom, — » 

And fled in here ; and when he followed me, 

I crouching by this pillar, he let down 

His hand, — being all too proud to send his eyes 

In its wake, — and, plucking forth my tender imp* 

Flung it behind him. It went yelping forth ; 

And, as for me, I never saw it more. 

Much is against us, — very much : the times 

Are hard." She paused : her fellow took the word, 

Plaining on such as preach and them that plead. 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 425 

* — ~~ ■ ' 

tk Even such as haunt the yawning mouths of hell," 
Quoth she, " and pluck them back that run thereto." 
Then, like a sudden blow, there fell on him 
The utterance of his name. " There is no soul 
That I loathe more, and oftener curse. Woe's me, 
That cursing should be vain ! Ay, he will go 
Gather the sucking children, that are yet 
Too } T oung for us, and watch and shelter them 
Till the strong Angels — pitiless and stern, 
But to them loving ever — sweep them in, 
By armsful, to the unapproachable fold. 

" We strew his path with gold : it will not lie. 
i Deal softly with him,' was the master's word- 
We brought him all delights : his angel came 
And stood between them and his eyes. They spend 
Much pains upon him, — keep him poor and low 
And unbeloved ; and thus he gives his mind 
To fill the fateful, the impregnable 
Child-fold, and sow on earth the seed of stars. 

'* Oh ! hard is serving against love, — the love 

Of the unspeakable ; for if we soil 

The souls, He openeth out a washing-place ; 

And if we grudge, and snatch away the bread, 

Then will He save by poverty, and gain 

By early giving up of blameless life ; 

And if we shed out gold, He even will save 

In spite of gold, — of twice refined gold." 

With that the curate set his daunted eyes 
To look upon the shadows of the fiends. 
He was made sure they could not see the child 
That nestled in his arms ; he also knew 
They were unconscious that his mortal ears 
Had new intelligence, which gave their speech 
Possible entrance through his garb of clay. 



4 26 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



He was afraid, yet awful gladness reacted 
His soul : the testimony of the lost 
Upbraided him ; but while he trembled yet, 
The heavenly child had lifted up its head 
And left his arms, and on the marble floor 
Stood beckoning. 

And, its touch withdrawn, the place 
Was silent, empty ; all that swarming tribe 
Of evil ones concealed behind the veil, 
And shut into their separate world, were closed 
From his observance. He arose, and paced 
After the little child, — as half in fear 
That it would leave him, — till they reached a door ; 
And then said he, — but much distraught he spoke, 
Laying his hand across the lock, — wt This door 
Shuts in the stairs whereby men mount the tower. 
Wouldst thou go up, and so withdraw to heaven?" 
It answered, " I will mount them." Then said he, 
"And I will follow." — " So thou shalt do well," 
The radiant thing replied, and it went up, 
And he, amazed, went after ; for the stairs, 
Otherwise dark, were lightened by the rays 
Shed out of raiment woven in high heaven, 
And hair whereon had smiled the light of God. 



With that, they, pacing on, came out at last 

Into a dim, weird place, — a chamber formed 

Betwixt the roofs : for you shall know that all 

The vaulting of the nave, fretted and fine, 

Was covered with the dust of ages, laid 

Thick with those chips of stone which they had left 

Who wrought it ; but a high-pitched roof was reared 

Above it, and the western gable pierced 

With three long narrow lights. Great tie-beams 

loomed 
Across, and manv daws frequented there, 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



427 



The starling and the sparrow littered it 
With straw, and peeped from many a shady nook ; 
And there was lifting np of wings, and there 
Was hasty exit when the curate came. 
But sitting on a beam and moving not 
For him, he saw two fair gray turtle-doves 
Bowing their heads, and cooing ; and the child 
Put forth a hand to touch his own, but straight 
He, startled, drew it back, because, forsooth, 
A stirring fancy smote him, and he thought 
That language trembled on their innocent tongues, 
And floated forth in speech that man could hear. 
Then said the child, tk Yet touch, my master dear." 
And he let down his hand, and touched again ; 
And so it was. " But if they had their way," 
One turtle cooed, " how should this world go on?" 

Then he looked w< 11 upon thorn as he stood 

Upright before them. They were feathered doves, 

And sitting close together ; and their eyes 

Were rounded with the rim that marks their kind. 

Their tender crimson feet did pat the beam, — 

No phantoms they ; and soon the fellow-dove 

Made answer, " Nay, they count themselves so wise, 

There is no task they shall be set to do 

But they will ask God why. What mean they so? 

The glory is not in the task, but in 

The doing it for Him. What should he think, 

Brother, this man that must, forsooth, be set 

Such noble work, and Buffered to behold 

Its fruit, if he knew more of us and ours? " 

With that the other leaned, as if attent : 

"Iain not perfect, brother, in his thought." 

The mystic bird replied, "Brother, lie saitli, 

1 But it is naught : the work is over-hard.' 

Whose fault is that ? God sets not overwork. 



428 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

He saith the world is sorrowful, and he 

Is therefore sorrowful. He cannot set 

The crooked straight; — but who demands of him, 

O brother, that he should? What ! thinks he, then, 

His work is God's advantage, and his will 

More bent to aid the world than its dread Lord's ? 

Nay, yet there live amongst us legions fair, 

Millions on millions, who could do right well 

What he must fail in ; and 'twas whispered me, 

That chiefly for himself the task is given, — 

His little daily task." With that he paused. 

Then said the other, preening its fair wing, 
kk Men have discovered all God's islands now, 
And given them names ; whereof they are as proud, 
And deem themselves as great, as if their hands 
Had made them. Strange is man, and strange his 

pride. 
Now, as for us, it matters not to learn 
What and from whence we be : How should we tell? 
Our world is undiscovered in these skies, 
Our names not whispered. Yet, for us and ours, 
What joy it is, — permission to come down, 
Not souls, as he, to the bosom of their God, 
To guide, bu '; to their goal the winged fowls, 
His lovely lower-fashioned lives to help 
To take their forms by legions, fly, and draw 
With us the sweet, obedient, flocking things 
That ever hear our message reverently, [way, 

And follow us far. How should they know their 
Forsooth, alone? Men say they fly alone ; 
Yet some have set on record, and averred, 
That they, among the flocks, had duly marked 
A leader." 

Then his fellow made reply : 
" Thev misht divine the Maker's heart. Come forth, 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 429 

Fair dove, to find the flocks, and guide their wings, 
For Ilhn that loveth them." 

With that, the child 
Withdrew his hand, and all their speech was done. 
He moved toward them, but they fluttered forth 
And tied into the sunshine. 

kw I would fain," 
Said he, "have heard some more. And wilt thoe 

go?" 
He added to the child, for this had turned. 
" Ay," quoth he, gently, *• to the beggar's place ; 
For I would Bee the beggar iu the porch." 

So they went down together to the door. 

Which, when the curate opened, lo ! without 

The beggar sat ; and he saluted him : 

u Good morrow, master." " Wherefore art thou 

here: " 
The curate asked : " it is not service time. 
And none will enter now to give thee alms." 
Then said the beggar, '' I have hope ;i t heart 
Thai I shall go to my poor house no more." 
l * Art thou so sick that thou dost think to die?" 
The curate said. With that the beggar laughed, 
And under his dim eyelids gathered tears, 
And he was all a-ti'emlile with a si range 
And moving exaltation. " Ay." quoth he. 
And set his face toward high heaven : ' k I think 
The Messing that I wait on must he near." 
Then said the curate, " ( rod be good to thee." 
And. straight, the little child put forth his hand, 
And touched him. " Master, master, hush 3 
You should not. master, speak so carelessly 
In this great presence." 



430 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN 

But the touch so wrought, 
That, lo ! the dazzled curate staggered back, 
For dread effulgence from the beggar's eyes 
Smote him, and from the crippled limbs shot forth 
Terrible lights, as pure long blades of fire. 
tk Withdraw thy touch! withdraw thy touch!" he 

cried, 
" Or else I shall be blinded." Then the child 
Stood back from him ; and he sat down apart, 
Recovering of his manhood : aud he heard 
The beggar and the child discourse of things 
Dreadful for glory, till his spirits came 
Anew ; and, when the beggar looked on him, 
He said, tk If I offend not, pray you tell 
Who and what are you, — I behold a face 
Marred with old age, sickness, and poverty, — 
A cripple with a staff, who long hath sat 
Begging, and ofttimes moaning, in the porch, 
For pain and ft)'- tlie wind's inclemency. 
What are you ? " Then the beggar made reply, 
" I was a delegate, a living power ; 
]\I> »,ork was bliss, for seeds were in my hand 
To plant a new-made world. O happy work ! 
It grew and blossomed ; but my dwelling-place 
Was far remote from heaven. I have not seen ; 
I knew no wish to enter there. Bat, lo ! 
There went forth rumors, running out like rays, 
How some, that were of power like even to mine ; 
Had made request to come and find a place 
Within its walls. And these were satisfied 
With promises, and sent to this far world 
To take the weeds of your mortality, 
And minister, and suffer grief and pain, 
And die like men. Then they were gathered in. 
They saw a face, and were accounted kin 
To Whom thou knowest, for He is kin to men. 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 431 

t4 Then did I wait ; and oft, at work, I sang, 

; To minister ! oh, joy, to minister ! ' 

And, it being known, a message came to me: 

' Whether is best, thon forest-planter wise, 

To minister to others, or that they 

Should minister to thee?' Then, on my face 

Low lying, I made answer : ' It is best, 

Most High, to minister ; ' and thus came back 

The answer. — k Choose not for thyself the best : 

Go down, and, lo ! my poor shall minister, 

Out of their poverty, to thee ; shall learn 

Compassion by thy frailty ; and shall oft 

Turn back, when speeding home from work, to help 

Thee, weak and crippled, home. My little ones, 

Thou shalt importune for their slender mite, 

And pray, and move them that they give it up 

For love of Me.' " 

The curate answered him, 
" Art thou content, great one from afar ! 
If I may ask, and not offend?" He said, 
" I am. Behold ! I stand not all alone, 
That I should think to do a perfect work. 
I may not wish to give ; for I have heard 
'Tis best for me that I receive. For me, 
God is the only giver, and I lis gift 
Is one." With that the little child sighed out, 
t; master ! master ! I am out of heaven 
8iuce noonday, and T hear them calling me, 
If you be ready, great one, let us go : — 
Hark! hark! they call." 

Then did the beggar lift 
His face to heaven and utter forth a cry 
As of the pangs of death, and every tree 
Moved as if shaken by a sudden wind. 
lie cried again, and there came forth a hand 



432 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



From some invisible form, which, being laid 
A little moment on the curate's eyes, 
It dazzled him with light that brake from it, 
80 that he saw no more. 

" What shall I do?" 
The curate murmured, when he came again 
To himself and looked about him. " This is strange ! 
My thoughts are all astray ; and yet, methinks, 
A weight is taken from my heart. Lo ! lo ! 
There lieth at my feet, frail, white, and dead, 
The sometime beggar. He is happy now. 
There was a child ; but he is gone, and he 
Is also happy. I am glad to think 
I am not bound to make the wrong go right ; 
But only to discover, and to do, 
With cheerful heart, the work that God appoints." 

With that, he did compose, with reverent care, 
The dead ; continuing, " I will trust in Him, 
That He can hold His own ; and I will take 
His will, above the work He sendeth me, 
To be my chiefest good/' 

Then went he forth, 
" I shall die early," thinking : " I am warned, 
By this fair vision, that I have not long 
To live." Yet he lived on to good old age ; — 
Ay, he lives yet, and he is working still. 



It may be there are many in like case ; 
They give themselves, and are in misery 
Because the gift is small, and doth not make 
The world by so much better as they fain 
Would have it. 'Tis a fault ; but, as for us, 
Let us not blame them. Maybe, 'tis a fault 
More kindly looked on by The Majesty 



A BIRTHDAY WALK, 433 



Than our best virtues are. Why, what are wer* 
What have we given, and what have we desired 
To give, the world? 

There must be something wrong. 
Look to it : let us mend our ways. Farewell. 



A BIRTHDAY WALK. 
(written for a friend's birthday.) 



The days of our life are threescore years and ten. 



A birthday : — and now a day that rose 
With much of hope, with meaning rife - 

A thoughtful day from dawn to close : 
The middle day of human life. 

In sloping fields on narrow plains, 

The sheep were feeding on their knees, 

As we went through the winding lanes, 
Strewed with red buds of alder-trees. 

So warm the day — its influence lent 
To flagging thoughts a stronger wing ; 

So utterly was winter spent, 

So sudden was the birth of spring. 

Wild crocus flowers in copse and hedge — ■■ 
In sunlight, clustering thick below, 

Sighed for the firwood's shaded ledge, 
Where sparkled yet a line of snow. 



434 A BIRTHDAY WALK. 

And crowded snowdrops faintly hung 
Their fair heads lower for the heat, 
While in still air all branches flung 

Their shadowy doubles at our feet. 

And through the hedge the sunbeams crept, 
Dropped through the maple and the birch ; 

And lost in airy distance slept 

On the broad tower of Tamworth Church. 

Then, lingering on the downward way, 

A little space we resting stood, 
To watch the golden haze that lay 

Adown that river by the wood. 

• 

A distance vague, the bloom of sleep 
The constant sun had lent the scene, 

A veiling charm on dingles deep 

Lay soft those pastoral hills between. 

There are some days that die not out, 

Nor alter by reflection's power, 
Whose converse calm, whose words devout, 

Forever rest, the spirit's dower. 

And they are days when drops a veil — 

A mist upon the distance past ; 
And while we say to peace — " All hail ! " 

We hope that always it shall last. 

Times when the troubles of the heart 

Are hushed — as winds were hushed that day 

And budding hopes begin to start, 

Like those green hedgerows on our way : 

When all within and all around 

Like hues on that sweet landscape blend, 

And Nature's hand has made to sound 
The heartstrings that her touch attend : 



NOT IN VAIN I WAITED. 435 

When there are raj's within, like those 

That streamed through maple and through 
birch, 

And rested in such calm repose 

On the broad tower of Tamworth Church. 



NOT IN VAIN I WAITED. 

She was but a child, a child, 

And I a man grown ; 
Sweet she was, and fresh, and wild, 

And, I thought, my own. 

What could I do? The long grass groweth, 
The long wave floweth with a murmur on : 
The why and the wherefore of it all who know- 
eth? 
Ere I thought to lose her she was grown — ■ 
and gone. 

This day or that da}- in warm spring weather, 

The lamb that was tame will yearn to break its 

tether. 
" But if the world wound thee," I said, " come back 

to me, 
Down in the dell wishing, — wishing, wishing for 

thee." 

The dews hang on the white may, 

Like a ghost it stands, 
All in the dusk before day 
That folds the dim lands : 
Dark fell the skies when once belated, 

Sad, and sorrow-fated, I missed the sun ; 
But wake, heart, and sing, for not in vain I waited. 
O ciear, solemn dawning, lo, the maid is won ! 



436 A GLEANING SONG. 

Sweet dews, dry early on the grass and {.'lover, 
Lest the bride wet her feet while she walks over ; 
Shine to-day, sunbeams, and make all fair to see : 
Down the dell she's coming — coming, coming with 
me. 



A GLEANING SONG. 

" Whither away, thou little careless rover? 

(Kind Roger's true) 
Whither away, across yon bents and clover, 
Wet, wet with dew? " 
" Roger here, Roger there — 

Roger — O, he sighed, 
Yet let me glean among the wheat, 
Nor sit kind Roger's bride." 

" What wilt thou do when all the gleaning's ended, 

What wilt thou do? 
The cold will come, and fog and frost-work blended 
(Kind Roger's true)." 
" Sleet and rain, cloud and storm, 

When they cease to frown, 
I'll bind me primrose bunches sweet, 
And cry them up the town." 

" What if at last thy careless heart awaking 

This day thou rue?" 
" I'll cry my flowers, and think for all its breaking, 
Kind Roger's true ; 
Roger here, Roger there, 
O, my true love sighed, 
Sigh once, once more, I'll stay my feet 
And i est kind Roger's bride." 



FANCY. 



437 



WITH A DIAMOND. 

While Time a grim old lion gnawing lay, 
And mumbled with its teeth you regal tomb, 

Like some immortal tear undimmed for aye, 

This gem was dropped among the dust of doom. 

Dropped, haply, by a sad forgotten queen, 

A tear to outlast name, and fame, and tongue : 

Her other tears, and ours, all tears terrene, 
For great new griefs to be hereafter sung. 

Take it, — a goddess might have wept such tears, 
Or Dame Eleetra changed into a star, 

That waxed so dim because her children's years 
In leaguered Troy were bitter through long war. 

Not till the end to end to grow dull or waste, — 
Ah, what a little while the light we share ! 

Hand after hand shall yet with this be graced, 
Signing the Will that leaves it to an heir. 



FANCY. 

Fancy, if thou flyeat, come back anon, 

Thy fluttering wings are soft as love's first word, 
And fragrant as the feathers of that bird, 
Which feeds upon the budded cinnamon. 

1 ask thee not to work, or sigh — play on, 

From naught that was not, was, or is, deterred ; 

The flax that Old Fate spun thy flights have 
stirred, 
And waved memorial grass of Marathon ; 
Play, but be gentle, not as on that day 

I saw thee running down the rims of doom 



438 LOOKING DOWN. 

With stars thou hadst been stealing — while they lay- 
Smothered in light and blue — clasped to thy breast ; 

Bring rather to me in the firelit room 
A netted halcyon bird to sing of rest. 



COMPENSATION. 

One launched a ship, but she was wrecked at sea ; 

He built a bridge, but floods have borne it down , 
He meant much good, none came : strange destiny, 

His corn lies sunk, his bridge bears none to town, 

Yet good he had not meant became his crown ; 
For once at work, when even as nature free, 

From thought of good he was, or of renown, 
God took the work for good and let good be. 
So wakened with a trembling after sleep, 

Dread Mona Roa yields her fateful store ; 
All gleaming hot the scarlet rivers creep, 

And fanned of great-leaved palms slip to the shore, 
Then stolen to uu plumbed wastes of that far deep, 

Lay the foundations for one island more. 



LOOKING DOWN. 

Mountains of sorrow, I have heard your moans, 
And the moving of your pines ; but we sit high i 
On your green shoulders, nearer stoops the sky, 

And pure airs visit us from all the zones. 
Sweet world beneath, too happy far to sigh, 

Dost thou look thus beheld from heavenly thrones? 

No ; not for all the love that counts thy stones, 
While sleepy with great light the valleys lie. 

Strange, rapturous peace ! its sunshine doth enfold 
My heart ; I have escaped to the days divine, 



MARRIED LCVERS. 439 

It seemeth as bygone ages back had rolled, 
And all the eldest past was now, was mine ; 

"Nay, even as if Melehizedec of old 

Might here come forth to us with bread and wine. 



MARRmD LOVERS. 

Come away, the clouds are high, 

Put the flashing needles by. 

Many days are not to spare, 

Or to waste, my fairest fair ! 

All is ready. Come to-day, 

For the nightingale her lay, 

When she lindeth that the whole 

Of her love, and all her soul, 

Cannot forth of her sweet throat, 

Sobs the while she draws her breath, 

And the bravery of her note 

In a few days altereth. 

Come, ere she despond, and see 

In a silent ecstasy 

Chestnuts heave for hours and hours 

All the glory of their flowers 

To the melting blue above, 

That broods over them like love. 

Leave the garden walls, where blow 

Apple-blossoms pink, and low 

Ordered beds of tulips fine. 

Seek the blossoms made divine 

With a scent that is their soul. 

These are soulless. Bring the white 

Of thy gown to bathe in light 

Walls for narrow hearts. The whole 

Earth is found, and air and sea, 

Not too wide for thee and me. 



440 MARRIED LOVERS. 

Not too wide, and yet thy face 

Gives the meaning of all space ; 

And thine eyes with starbeams fraught, 

Hold the measure of all thought ; 

For of them my soul besought, 

And was shown a glimpse of thine ■ — 

A veiled vestal, with divine 

Solace, in sweet love's despair, 

For that life is brief as fair. 

Who hath most, he yearneth most, 

Sure, as seldom heretofore, 

Somewhere of the gracious more. 

Deepest joy the least shall boast, 

Asking with new-opened eyes 

The remainder ; that which lies 

O, so fair ! but not all conned — 

O, so near ! and yet beyond. 

Come, and in the woodland sit, 
Seem a wonted part of it. 
Then, while moves the delicate air, 
And the glories of thy hair 
Little nickering sun-rays strike, 
Let me see what thou art like ; 
For great love enthralls me so, 
That, in sooth, I scarcely know. 
Show me, in a house all green, 
Save for long gold wedges' sheen, 
Where the flies, white sparks of fire, 
Dart and hover and aspire, 
And the leaves, air-stirred on high, 
Feel such joy they needs must sigh, 
And the untracked grass makes sweet 
All fair flowers to touch thy feet, 
And the bees about them hum. 
All the world is waiting:. Come ! 



A WINTER SONG. 441 



A WINTER SONG. 

Came the dread Archer up yonder lawn — 
Night is the time for the old to die — 

But woe for au arrow that smote the fawn, 

When the hind that was sick unscathed went by. 

Father lay moaning, " Her fault was sore 
(Night is the time when the old must die), 

Yet, ah to bless her, my child, once more, 
For heart is failing : the end is nigh." 

kt Daughter, my daughter, my girl," I cried 
(Night is the time for the old to die) , 

'• Woe for the wish if till morn ye bide" — 
Dark was the welkin and wild the sky. 

Heavily plunged from the roof the snow — 
(Night is the time when the old will die), 

She answered, kk My mother, 'tis well, I go." 
Sparkled the north star, the wrack flew high. 

First at his head, and last at his feet 

(Night is the time when the old should die), 

Kneeling I watched till his soul did fleet, 

None else that loved him, none else were nigh. 

I wept in the night as the desolate weep 
(Night is the time for the old to die), 

Cometh my daughter? the drifts are deep, 
Across the cold hollows how white they lie. 

I sought her afar through the spectral trees 
(Night is the time when the old must die), 

The fells were all muffled, the floods did freeze, 
And a wrathful moon hung red in the sky. 



44 2 BINDING SHEAVES. 

By night I found her where pent waves steal 
(Night is the time when the old should die), 

But she lay stiff by the locked mill-wheel, 

And the old stars lived in their homes on high- 



BINDING SHEAVES. 

Hark ! a lover binding sheaves, 

To his maiden sings, 
Flutter, flutter go the leaves, 

Larks drop their wings. 
Little brooks for all their mirth 

Are not blithe as he. 
44 Give me what the love is worth 

That I give thee. 

44 Speech that cannot be forborne 

Tells the story through : 
I sowed my love m with the corn, 

And they both grew. 
Count the world full wide of girth, 

And hived honey sweet, 
But count the love of more worth 

Laid at thy feet. 

44 Money's worth is house and land, 

Velvet coat and vest. 
Work's worth is bread in hand, 

Ay, and sweet rest. 
Wilt thou learn what love is worth? 

Ah ! she sits above, 
Sighing, 4 Weigh me not with earth, 

Love's worth is love.'" 



WISHING. 443 



WORK. 

Like coral insects multitudinous 

The minutes are whereof our life is made. 
They build it up, as in the deep's blue shade 

It grows, it comes to light, and then, and thus 

For both there is an end. The populous 

Sea-blossoms close, our minutes that have paid 
Life's debt of work are spent ; the work is laid 

Before our feet that shall come after us. 

AVe may not stay to watch if it will speed, 
The bard if on some luter's string his sor.g 

Live sweetly yet ; the hero if his star 

Doth shine. Work is its own best earthly roeed, 
Else have we none more than the sea-born tkrong 

Who wrought those marvellous isles that bloom afar. 



WISHING. 



When I reflect how little I have done, 
And add to that how Utile I have seen, 

Then furthermore how little I have won 

Of joy, or good, how little known, or been : 
I long for other life more full, more kern. 

And yearn to change with such as well have 1 run — 
Yet reason mocks me — nay, the soul, I ween, 

Granted her choice would dare to change with none, 

No, not to feel, as lilondel when his lay 

Pierced the strong tower, and Richard answered 
it — 

No, not to do, as Eustace on the day 
He left fair Calais to her weeping fit — 

No, not to be, — Columbus, waked from sleep 

When his i ew world rose from the charmed deep. 



444 ON THE BORDERS OF CANNOCK CHASE. 

TO . 

Strange was the doom of Heracles, whose shade 
Had dwelling in dim Hades the imblest, 
While yet his form and presence sat a guest 

With the old immortals when the feast w r as made. 

Thine like, thus differs ; form and presence laid 
In this dim chamber of enforced rest, 
It is the unseen ^ shade " which, risen, hath pressed 

Above all heights where feet Olympian strayed. 

My soul admires to hear thee speak ; thy thought 
Falls from a high place like an August star, 

Or some great eagle from his air-hung rings — 
When swooping past a snow-cold mountain scar — 

Down the steep slope of a long sunbeam brought, 
He stirs the wheat with the steerage of his wings. 



ON THE BORDERS OF CANNOCK CHASE. 

A cottager leaned whispering by her hives, 
Telling the bees some news, as they lit down, 
And entered one by one their waxen town. 

Larks passioning hung o'er their brooding wives, 

And all the sunny hills where heather thrives 
Lay satisfied with peace. A stately crown 
Of trees enringed the upper headland brown, 

And reedy pools, wherein the moor-hen dives, 

Glittered and gleamed. 

A resting-place for light, 
They that were bred here love it ; but they say, 

"We shall not have it long ; in three years' time 
A hundred pits will cast out fires by night, 
Down yon still glen their smoke shall trail its way, 

And the white ash lie thick in lieu of rime." 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 445 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 

Once on a time there walked a mariner, 

That had been shipwrecked, on a lonely shore, 

And the green water made a restless stir, 
And a great flock of mews sped on before. 

He had nor food nor shelter, for the tide 

Rose on the one, and cliffs on the other side. 

Brown cliffs they were ; they seemed to pierce the 
sky, 

That was an awful deep of empty blue, 
Save that the wind was in it, and on high 

A wavering skein of wild-fowl tracked it through. 
He marked them not, but went with movement slow, 
Because his thoughts were sad, his courage low. 

His heart was numb, he neither wept nor sighed, 
But wearifully lingered by the wave ; 

Until at length it chanced that he espied 
Far up, an opening in the cliff, a cave, 

A shelter where to sleep in his distress, 

And lose his sorrow in forgetfulness. 

With that he clambered up the rugged face 
Of that steep cliff that all in shadow lay, 

And, lo, there was a dry and homelike place, 
Comforting refuge for the castaway ; 

And he laid down his weary, weary head, 

And took his fill of sleep till dawn waxed red. 

When he awoke, warm stirring from the south 
Of delicate summer air did sough and flow ; 

He rose, and, wending to the cavern's mouth, 
He cast his eyes a little way below, 

Where on the narrow ledges, sharp and rude, 

Preening their wings, the blue rock-pigeons cooed. 



446 THE MARINER'S CAVE. 

Then he looked lower and saw the lavender 
And sea-thrift blooming in long crevices, 

And the brown wallflower — April's messenger, 
The wallflower marshalled in her companies. 

Then lower yet he looked adown the steep, 

And sheer beneath him lapped the lovely deep. 

The laughing deep ; — and it was pacified 

As if had not raged that other day. 
And it went murmuring in the morningtide 

Innumerable flatteries on its way, 
Kissing the cliffs and whispering at their feet 
With exquisite advancement, and retreat. 

This when the mariner beheld he sighed, 
And thought on his companions lying low. 

But while he gazed with eyes unsatisfied 
On the fair reaches of their overthrow, 

Thinking it strange he only lived of all, 

But not returning thanks, he heard a call ! 

A soft sweet call, a voice of tender ruth, 

He thought it came from out the cave. And, lo, 

It whispered, ' k Man, look up ! " But he, forsooth, 
Answered, " I cannot, for the long waves flow 

Across my gallant ship where sunk she lies 

With all my riches and my merchandise. 

" Moreover, I am heavy for the fate 

Of these my mariners drowned in the deep ; 

I must lament me for their sad estate 

Now they are gathered in their last long sleep. 

O ! the unpitying heavens upon me frown, 

Then iiow should I look up? — I must look down." 

And he stood yet watching the fair green sea 

Till hunger reached him ; then he made a fire, 
A driftwood lire, and wandered listlessly 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 447 



And gathered many eggs at his desire, 

And dressed them for his meal, and then he lay 
And slept, and woke upon the second day. 

When as he said, "The cave shall be my home ; 

None will molest me, for the brown cliffs rise 
Like castles of defence behind, — the foam 

Of the remorseless sea beneath me lies ; 
'Tis easy from the cliff my food to win, — 
The nations of the rock-dove breed therein. 

4i For fuel, at the ebb yon fair expanse 

Is strewed with driftwood by the breaking wave, 

And in the sea is fish for sustenance. 
I will build up the entrance of the cave, 

And leave therein a window and a door. 

And here will dwell and leave it nevermore. " 

Then even so he did ; and when his task, 
Many long days being over, was complete ; 

When he had eaten, as he sat to bask 
In the re. I firelight glowing at his feet, 

He was right glad of shelter, and lie said, 

"Now for my comrades am I comforted." 

Then did the voice awake and speak again ; 

It murmured, " Man, look up ! " But he replied, 
" I cannot. 0, mine eyes, mine eyes are fain 

Down on the red wood-ashes to abide 
Because they warm me." Then the voice was still, 
And left the lonely mariner to his will. 

And soon it came to pass that he got gain. 

He had great flocks of pigeons which he fed, 
And .drew great store of fish from out the main, 

And down from eider ducks ; and then he said, 
"II is not ejood that I should lead my life 
In silence, I will take to me a wife." 



44$ THE MARINERS CAVE. 

He took a wife, and brought her home to him ; 

And he was good to her and cherished her 
So that she loved him ; then when light waxed dim 

Gloom came no more ; and she would minister 
To all his wants ; while he, being well content, 
Counted her company right excellent. 

But once as on the lintel of the door 

She leaned to watch him while he put to sea, 

This happy wife, down-gazing at the shore, 
Said sweetly, kk It is better now with me 

Than it was lately when I used to spin 

In my old father's house beside the lin." 

And then the soft voice of the cave awoke — • 
The soft voice which had haunted it erewhile — 

And gently to the wife it also spoke, 

" Woman, look up ! " But she, with tender guile, 

Gave it denial, answering, ** Nay, not so, 

For all that I should look on lieth below. 

" Tlie great skv overhead is not so good 
For my two eyes as yonder stainless sea, 

The source and yielder of our livelihood. 
Where rocks his little boat that loveth me." 

This when the wife had said she moved away, 

And looked no higher than the wave all day. 

Now when the year ran out a child she bore, 
And there was such rejoicing in the eave 

As surely never had there been before 

Since God first made it. Then full, sweet, and 
grave, 

The voice, ' k God's utmost blessing brims thy cup, 

0, father of this child, look up, look up !" 



" Speak to my wife," the mariner replied 
have m 
true — 



U I have much work — right welcome work 'tis 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 44Q 



Another mouth to feed." And then it sighed, 

" Woman, look up ! " She said, - Make no ado, 
For I must needs look down, on anywise, 
My heaven is in the blue of these dear eyes." 
The seasons of the year did swiftly whirl, 

They measured time by one small life alone ; 
On such a day the pretty pushing pearl 
^ That mouth they loved to kiss had sweetly shown, 
That smiling mouth, and it had made essay 
To give them names on such another day. 
And afterward his infant history, 

Whether he played with baubles on the floor, 
Or crept to pat the rock-doves pecking nigh, 

And feeding on the threshold of the door, 
They loved to mark, and all his marvellings dim, 
The mysteries that beguiled and baffled him. 
He was so sweet, that oft his mother said, 

"O child, how was it that I dwelt content 
Before thou earnest ! Blessings on thy head, 

Thy pretty talk it is so innocent. 
That oft for all my joy, though it he deep, 
When thou art prattling, 1 am like to weep." 
Summer and winter spent themselves again, 

The rock-doves iu their season bred, the cliff 
Grew sweet, for every cleft would entertain 

Its hilt of blossom, and the mariner's skiff, 
Early and late, would linger in the hay, 
Because the sea was calm and winds away. 
The little child about that rocky height, 

Led by her loving hand who gave him birth, 
Might wander in the clear unclouded light, 

And take his pastime in the beauteous earth; 
Smell the fair (lowers in stony cradles swung, 
And see God's happy creatures feed their young. 



45o THE MARINERS CAVE. 



And once it came to pass, at eventide, 

His mother set him in the cavern door, 
And filled his lap with grain, and stood aside 

To watch the circling rock-doves soar, and soar, 
Then dip, alight, and run in circling bands, 
To take the barley from his open hands, 
And even while she stood and gazed at him, 

And his grave father's eyes upon him dwelt, 
They heard the tender voice, and it was dim, 

And seemed full softly in the air to melt ; 
" Father," it murmured, "Mother," dying away, 
*' Look up, while yet the hours are called to-day." 
" I will," the father answered, " but not now ; " 

The mother said, " Sweet voice, O speak to me 
At a convenient season." And the brow 

Of the cliff began to quake right fearfully, 
There was a rending crash, and there did leap 
A riven rojk and plunge into the deep. 
They said, " A storm is coming ; ' but they slept 

That night in peace, and thought the storm had 
passed, 
For there was not a cloud to intercept 

The sacred moonlight on the cradle cast ; 
And to his rockiug boat at dawn of day, 
With joy of heart the mariner took his way. 

But when he mounted up the path at night, 
Foreboding not of trouble or mischance, 

His wife came out into the fading light, 
And met him with a serious countenance ; 

And she broke out in tears and sobbings thick, 

tk The little child is sick, my little child is sick." 

They knelt beside him in the sultry dark, 

And when the moon looked in his face was pale, 
And when the red sun, like a burning bark, 



THE MARWER'S CAVE, 451 

Rose in a fog at sea, his tender wail 
Sank deep into their hearts, and piteously 
They fell to chiding of their destiny. 

The doves unheeded cooed that livelong day, 
Their pretty playmate cared for them no more ; 

The sea-thrift nodded, wet with glistening spray, 
None gathered it ; the long wave washed the shore ; 

He did not know, nor lift his eyes to trace, 

The new fallen shadow in his dwelling-place. 

Tin. 1 sultry sun beat on the cliffs all day, 

And hot calm airs slept on the polished sea, 

The mournful mother wore her time away, 
Bemoaning of her helpless misery, 

Pleading and plaining, till the day was done, 

kk (J look on me, my love, my little one. 

k - What aileth thee, that thou dost lie and moan? 

Ah ! would that I might hear it. in thy stead." 
The father made not his forebodings known, 

lint gazed, and in his secret soul he said, 
" I may have sinned, on sin waits punishment, 
Bat as for him, sweet blameless innocent, 

11 What has he done that he is stricken down? 

O it is hard to see him sink and fade. 
When I. that counted him my dear life's crown, 

So willingly have worked while he has played; 
That he might sleep, have risen, come storm, come 

heat, 
And thankfully would fast that he might eat." 

My God, how short our happy days appear! 

How long the sorrowful ! They thought it long, 
The sultry morn that brought such evil cheer, 

And sat, and wished, and sighed for evensong; 
It came, and cooling wafts about him stirred, 
Yet when they spoke he answered not a word. 



45 2 THE MARINERS CAVE. 

44 Take heart," they cried, but their sad hearts sank 
low 

When he would moan and turn his restless head, 
And wearily the lagging morns would go, 

And nights, while they sat watching by his bed, 
Until a storm came up with wind and rain, 
And lightning ran along the troubled main. 

Over their heads the mighty thunders brake, 
Leaping and tumbling down from rock to rock, 

Then burst anew and made the cliffs to quake 
As they were living things and felt the shock ; 

The waiting sea to sob as if in pain, 

And all the midnight vault to ring again. 

A lamp was burning in the mariner's cave, 
But the blue Lightning flashes made it dim ; 

And when the mother heard those thunders rave, 
She took her little child to cherish him ; 

She took him in her arms, and on her breast 

Full wearily she courted him to rest, 

And soothed him long until the storm was spent, 
And the last thunder peal had died away, 

And stars were out in all the firmament. 

Then did he cease. to moan, and slumbering lay, 

While in the welcome silence, pure and deep, 

The care-worn parents sweetly fell asleep. 

And in a dream, enwrought with fancies thick, 
The mother thought she heard the rock-doves coo 

(She had forgotten that her child was sick) , 
And she went forth their morning meal to strew : 

Then over all the cliff with earnest care 

She sought her child, and lo, he was not there ! 

But she was not afraid, though long she sought 

And climbed the cliff, and set her feet in grass, 
Then reached a river, broad and full, she thought, 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 453 

And at its brink lie sat. Alas ! alas ! 
For one stood near him, fair and uudefiled, 
An innocent, a marvellous man-child. 

In garments white as wool, and 0, most fair, 
A rainbow covered him with mystic light; 

Upon the warmed grass his feet were bare, 
And as he breathed, the rainbow in her sight 

In passions of clear crimson trembling lay, 

With gold and violet mist made fair the day. 

Her little life ! she thought, his little hands 
Were full of flowers that he did play withal; 

But when he saw the boy o' the golden lands. 
And looked him in the face, he let them fall, 

Held through a rapturous pause in wistful wise 

To the sweet strangeness of those keen child-eyes. 

" Ah, dear and awful God, who chastenest me, 

How shall my soul to this be reconciled ! 
It is the Saviour of the world," quoth she, 

' w And to my child He cometh as a child." 
Then on her knees she fell by that vast stream — 
Oh, it was sorrowful, this woman's dream ! 

For lo, that Elder Child drew nearer now, 
Fair as the light, and purer than the sun. 

The calms of heaven were brooding on his brow, 
And in his arms He took her little one, 

Her child, that knew her. but with sweet demur 

Drew back, nor held his hands to come to her. 

With that in mother misery sore she wept — 
tl Lamb of God, 1 love my child so much ! 

He stole away to Thee while we two slept. 
But give him back, for thou hast many such. 

And as for me I have but one. deign. 

Dear Pitv of God, to <nve him me ;i^mi." 



454 



A REVERIE. 



His feet were on the river. Oh, his feet 

Had touched the river now. and it was great; 
And yet He hearkened when she did entreat, 

And turned in quietness as He would wait — 
Wait till she looked upon Him, and behold, 
There lay a long way off a city of gold. 
Like to a jasper and a sardine stone, 

Whelmed in the rainbow stood that fair man-child, 
Mighty and innocent, that held her own. 

And as might be his manner at home he .smiled. 
Then while she looked and looked, the vision brake, 
And all amazed she Started tip awake. 
And lo, her little child was gone indeed ! 

The sleep that knows no waking he had slept, 
Folded to heaven's own heart; in rainbow brede 

Clothed and made glad, while they two mourned 
and wept, 
But in the drinking of their bitter CUp 
The sweet voice spoke onee more, and sighed, 

"Look up!" 
They heard, and straightway answered, " Even so: 

For what abides that we should look on here? 
The heavens are better than this earth below, 

They are of more account and far more dear. 
We will look up, for all mosl sweet and fair, 
Most pure, most excellent, is garnered there." 



A REVERIE. 

When I do sit apart 

And commune with my heart, 
She brings me forth the treasures once my own ; 

Shows me a happy place 

Where leaf-buds swelled apace, 
And wasting rims of snow in sunlight shone. 



A REVERIE. 455 



Rock, in a mossy glade, 

The larch-trees lend thee shade, 
That just be-in to feather with their leaves; 

From out thy crevice deep 

White tufts of snowdrops peep, 
And melted rime drips softly from thine eaves. 

Ah, rock, I know, I know 

That yet thy snowdrops grow, 
And yet doth sunshine Heck them through the tree. 

Whose sheltering branches bide 

Tin ■ at its Bide, 

That nevermore will shade or shelter me. 

I know tin- stockdoves' note 

Athwart the glen doth float ; 
With sweet foreknowledge of her twins oppressed, 

And longing onward sent, 

sin- broods before the event. 
While leisurely she mends her Bhallow □ 

( )nce to that cottage door, . 
In happy days of yore, 

My little love made footprints in the snow. 

She \\:, 1 of spline-. 

She helped tin* birds to sine-, 
1 know Bhe dwells there yet — the rest I do not know. 

They sang, and would not stop, 

While drop, and drop, and drop, 
I heard the incited rime in sunshine fall; 

And narrow wandering rills, 

Where leaned the daffodils, 
Murmured and murmured on, and that was all. 

I think, hut cannot, tell, 
I think she loved me well, 
And some dear fancy with my future twined. 



456 DEFTON WOOD. 

But I shall never know, 
Hope faints, and lets it go, 
That passionate want forbid to speak its mind. 



DEFTON WOOD. 

I held my way through Defton Wood, 

And on to Wandor Hall ; 
The dancing leaf let down the light, 

In hovering spots to fall. 
44 O young, young leaves, you match me well," 

Mv heart was merry, and sun^ — 
" Now wish me joy of my sweet youth ; 

My love — she, too, is young! 

O so many, many, many 

Little homes above my head ! 
O so many, many, many 

Dancing blossoms round me spread ! 
O so many, many, many 

Maidens sighing yet for none ! 
Speed, ye wooers, speed with any — 

Speed with all but one." 

I took my leave of Wandor Hall, 

And trod the woodland ways. 
" What shall I do so long to bear 

The burden of my days ? " 
I sighed my heart into the boughs 

Whereby the culvers cooed ; 
For only I between them went 

Unwooing and unwooed. 

"O so many, many, many 

Lilies bending stately heads! 
O so many, many, many 

Strawberries ripened on their beds I 



THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT. 457 

O so many, many, many 

Maids, and yet my heart undone ! 

What to me are all, are any — 
I have lost my — one." 



THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT 

(In Licl [field Cathedral.) 

Marvels of sleep, grown cold ! 

Who hath not longed to fold 
With pitying ruth, forgetful of their bliss, 

Those cherub forms that lie, 

With none to watch them nigh, 
Or touch the silent lips with one warm human kiss? 

What ! they are left alone 

All night with graven stone, 
Pillars and arches that above them meet ; 

While through those windows high 

The journeying stars can spy, 
And dim blue moonbeams drop on their uncovered 
feet? 

O cold ! yet look again, 

There is a wandering vein 
Traced in the hand where those white snowdrops lie. 

Let her rapt dreamy smile 

The wondering heart beguile, 
That almost thinks to hear a calm contented sigh. 

What silence dwells between 

Those severed lips serene ! 
The rapture of sweet waiting breathes and grows. 

What trance-like peace is shed 

On her reclining head, 
And e'en on listless feet what languor of repose ! 



458 THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT. 

Angels of joy and love 

Lean softly from above 
And whisper to her sweet and marvellous things ; 

Tell of the golden gate 

That opened wide doth wait, 
And shadow her dim sleep with their celestial wings. 

Hearing of that blest shore 

She thinks on earth no more, 
Contented to forego this wintry land. 

She has nor thought nor cure 

But to rest calmly there, 
And hold the snowdrops pale that blossom in her 
hand. 

But on the other face 

Broodeth a mournful grace, 
This had foreboding thoughts beyond her years, 

While sinking thus to sleep 

She saw her mother weep, 
And could not lift her hand to dry those heart-sick 
tears. 

Could not — but failing lay, 

Sighed her young life away, 
And let her arm drop down in listless rest, 

Too weary on that bed 

To turn her dying head, 
Or fold the little sister nearer to her breast. 

Yet this is faintly told 

On features fair and cold, 
A look of calm surprise, of mild regret, 

As if with life oppressed 

She turned her to her rest, 
But felt her mother's love and looked not to forget. 



AN ANCIENT CHESS K'/XG. 459 

How wistfully they cl< 

Sweet eyes, to their repose! 
How quietly declines the placid brow! 

The young lips Be* m to Bay, 

•• 1 have wept much to-day, 
And felt Borne bitter pains, but they are over now." 

Sleep ! there arc left below 

Many who pine to go, 
Many who lay it to their chastened souls, 

That gloomy days draw nigh, 

And tiifv are blesl \\ ho die, 
For this green world grows worse the longer that 
Bbe rolls. 

And as for me I know 
A little of her w< 
Her yearning wanl doth in my soul abide, 
And sighs of them thai weep, 

•• ( ) put 11- -""ii to sleep, 
F< >v vi lun w e wake -with Tint — we Bhall be satisfied." 



AN ANCIENT I HESS KING. 

11 mm v -mnc Rajah first in th< >ne 

Amid bis languid Ladies fingered thee, 
While a black nightingale, Bun-swarl as he. 

Sang his one wife, love's passionate oraisou ; 

Haply thou may's! have pleased Old Prester John 
Among his pastures, when full royally 
He Ba1 in tent, grave shepherds at liis knee, 

While lamps of balsam winked and glimmered on« 

What doest thou here? Thy masters are :ill deal; 
>I\ heart is full of ruth and yearning pain 



460 THOUGH ALL GREAT DEEDS. 

At sight of thee ; king that hast a crown 

Outlasting theirs, and tell'st of greatness fled 
Through cloud-hung nights of unabated rain 
And murmurs of the dark majestic town. 



COMFORT IN THE NIGHT. 

She thought by heaven's high wall that she did stray 

Till she beheld the everlasting gate : 

And she climbed up to it to long, and wait, 
Feel with her hands (for it was night) , and lay 
Her lips to it w T ith kisses ; thus to pray 

That it might opeu to her desolate. 

And lo ! it trembled, lo ! her passionate 
Crying prevailed. A little, little way 
It opened : there fell out a thread of light, 

And she saw winged wonders move within ; 
Also she heard sweet talking as they meant 
To comfort her. They said, u Who comes to-night 

Shall one da}- certainly an entrance win ; " 
Then the gate closed and she awoke content. 



THOUGH ALL GREAT DEEDS. 

Though all great deeds were proved but fables fine, 
Though earth's old story could be told anew, 
Though the sweet fashions loved of them that sue 
Were empty as the ruined Delphian shrine — 
Though God did never man, in words benign, 
With sense of His great Fatherhood endue, — 
Though life immortal were a dream untrue, 
And He that promised it were not divine — 
Though soul, though spirit were not and all hope 
Reaching beyond the bourn, melted away ; 



THE LONG WHITE SEAM. 46 \ 

Though virtue had no goal and good no scope, 
But both were doomed to end with this our clay — ■ 

Though all these were not, — to the ung raced heir 
Would this remain, — to live, as though they were. 



THE LONG WHITE SEAM. 

As I came round the harbor buoy, 

The Lights began to gleam, 
No wave the land-locked water stirred, 

The crags were white as cream ; 
And I marked mv love by candle-light 
Sewklg her long white >e:un. • 

It's aye sewing ashore, \\\\ dear, 

Watch and Steer at sea. 
It's reef :ind furl, and haul the line, 
Set sail and think of thee. 

I climbed to her collage door; 

() sweetly my love singa ! 
Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth, 

My soul to meet it sprin< 
As the shining water leaped of old, 
When stirred bv angel wines. 
Ave longing to list an< w. 

Awake and in mv dream. 
But never a song she Bang like this. 
Sewing her long white seam. 

Fair fall the lights, the harbor lights. 

That brought me in to thee, 
And peace drop down on that low roof 

Far the sight that I did see, 
And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear 

All for the love of me. 



462 AN OLD WIFE'S SONG. 



For 0, for 0, with brows bent low 
By the candle's flickering gleam, 

Her wedding gown it was she wrought, 
Sewing the long white seam. 



AN OLD WIFE'S SONG. 

And what will ye hear, my daughters dear? — 

Oh, what will ye hear this night? 
Shall I sing you a song of the yuletide cheer, 

Or of lovers and ladies bright? 

" Thou shalt sing," they say (for we dwell far away 
From the land where fain would we be), 

" Thou shalt sing us again some old-world strain 
That is sung in our own countrie. 

" Thou shalt mind us so of the times long ago, 

When we walked on the upland lea, 
While the old harbor light waxed faint in the white, 

Long rays shooting out from the sea ; 

" While lambs were yet asleep, and the dew lay deep 
On the grass, and their fleeces clean and fair. 

Never grass was seen so thick nor so green 
As the grass that grew up there ! 

" In the town w?s no smoke, for none there awoke — 
At our feet it lay still as still could be ; 

And we saw far below the long river flow, 
And the schooners a-warping out to sea. 

" Sing us now a strain shall make us feel again 
As we felt in that sacred peace of morn, 

When we had the first view of the wet sparkling dew, 
In the shyness of a day just born." 



COLD AND QUIET. 463 

So I sang an old song — it was plain and not long — 
I had sung it very oft when they were small ; 

Aud long ere it was done they wept every one : 
Yet this was all the song — this was all : — 

The snow lies white, and the moon gives light, 

I'll out to the freezing mere, 
And ease my heart with one little song, 

For none will be nigh to hear. 

And it's O my loves my love! 

And it's O my dear, my dear ! 
It's of her that I'll sing till the wild woods ring, 

When nobody's nigh to hear. 

My love is young, she is young, is young ; 

When she laughs the dimple dips. 
We walked in the wind, and her long loeks blew 

Till sweetly they touched my lips. 

And I'll out to the freezing mere, 

Where the stiff reeds whistle so low, 
And I'll tell my mind to the friendly wind, 

Because I have loved her so. 

A}', aud she's true, my lady is true! 

And that's the best of it all ; 
And when she blushes my heart so yearns 

That tears are ready to fall. 

And it's O my love, my love ! 

And it's O my dear, my dear ! 
It's of her that I'll sing till the wild woods ring, 

When nobody's nigh to hear. 



COLD AND QUIET. 
Cold, my dear, — cold and quiet. 

In their cups on yonder lea, 
Cowslips fold the brown bee's diet ; 

So the moss enfoldeth thee. 



464 A SNOW MOUNTAIN. 

ik Plant me, plant me, O love, a lily flower — ■ 
Plant at my head, I pray you, a green tree ; 

And when our children sleep," she sighed, " at the 
dusk hour, 
And when the lily blossoms, O come out to me ! " 

Lost, my dear? Lost! nay, deepest 

Love is that which loseth least; 
Through the night-time while thou sleepest, 
Still I watch the shrouded east. 
Near thee, near thee, my wife that aye liveth, 

w ' Lost" is no word for such a love as mine ; 
Love from her past to me a present giveth, 

And love itself doth comfort, making pain divine. 

Rest, my dear, rest. Fair showeth 
That which was, and not in vain 
Sacred have I kept, God knoweth, 
Love's last words atween us twain. 
" Hold by our past, my onl}- love, my lover; 
Fall not, but rise, O love, by loss of me ! " 
Boughs from our garden, white with bloom hang 
over. 
Love, now the children slumber, I come out to 
thee. 



A SNOW MOUNTAIN. 

Can I make white enough my thought for thee, 

Or wash my words in light? Thou hast no mate 
To sit aloft in silence silently 

And twin those matchless heights undesecrnte. 
Reverend as Lear, when, lorn of shelter, he 

Stood, with his old white head, surprised at fate. 
Alone as Galileo, when, set free, 

Before the stars he mused disconsolate. 
Av, and remote, as the dead lords of soug, 



SLEEP. — PROMISING. 465 



Great masters who have made us what we are, 
For thou and they have taught us how to long 

And feel a sacred want of the fair and far: 
Reign, and keep life in this our deep desire — 
Our only greatness is that we aspire. 



SLEEP. 
(a woman speaks.) 

O sleep, we are beholden to thee, sleep, 
Thou bearest angels to us in the night, 
Saints out of heaven with palms. Seen by Ihv 
light 

Sorrow is some old talc that goeth not deep ; 

Love is a pouting child. Once 1 did sweep 

Through space with thee, and,lo, a dazzling sight- 
Stars 3 They came on, I felt their drawing and 
might ; 

And some had dark companions. Once (I weep 

When I remember that) we sailed the tide. 

And found lair isles, where no isles used to hide, 
And met there my lost love, who said to me, 

That 'twas a long mistake: he had not died. 
Sleep, in the world to come how strange 'twill be 
Never to want, never to wish for thee ! 



PROMISING. 

(a max speaks.) 
Once, a new world, the sun-swart marinere, 

Columbus, promised, and was sore withstood, 
Ungraced, unhelped, unheard for many a year; 

But let at last to make his promise good. 



466 LOVE. 

Promised and promising I go, most dear, 

To better my dull heart with love's sweet feud, 
My life with its must reverent hope and fear, 

And my religion, with fair gratitude. 
O we must part ; the stars for me contend, 

And all the winds that blow on all the seas. 
Through wonderful waste places I must wend, 

And with a promise my sad soul appease. 
Promise then, promise much of far-off bliss; 
But — ah, for present joy, give me one kiss. 



LOVE. 



Who veileth love should first have vanquished fate. 
She folded up the dream in her deep heart, 
Her fair full lips were silent on that smart, 

Thick fringed eyes did on the grasses wait. 

What good? one eloquent blush, butoue, and straight 
The meaning of a life was known ; for art 
Is often foiled in playing nature's part, 

And time holds nothing long inviolate. 

Earth's buried seed springs up — slowly, or fast: 

The ring came home, that one in ages past 
Flung to the keeping of un fathomed seas : 
And golden apples on the mystic trees 

Were sought and found, and borne away at last, 
Though watched of the divine Hesperides. 



HENRY. 467 



POEMS 

Written on the Deaths of Three Lovely Children who vert 
taken from their Parents within a Month 0/ one another. 



HENRY, 

AGED EIGHT YEARS. 

Yellow leaves, how fast they flutter — woodland 
hollows thickly strewing, 
Where the wan October sunbeams scantly in the 
mid-day win, 

While the dim gray clouds are drifting, and in sad- 
dened hues imbuing 

All without and all within ! 

All within ! but winds of autumn, little Henry, round 
their dwelling 
Did not load your father's spirit with those deep 
and burdened sighs ; — 

Only echoed thoughts of sadness, in your mother's 
bosom swelling, 

Fast as tears that dim her eyes. 

Life is fraught with many changes, cheeked with 
sorrow and mutation. 
But no grief it ever lightened such a truth before 
to know : — 
I behold them — father, mother — as they seem to 
contemplation, 

Onlv three short weeks ago ! 



4 6S HENRY. 



Saddened for the morrow's parting — up the stairs 
at midnight stealing — 
As with cautious foot we glided past the children's 
open door, — 
" Come in here," they said, the lamplight dimpled 
forms at last revealing, 

" Kiss them in their sleep once more." 

You were sleepiug, little Henry, with your eyelids 
scarcely closing, 
Two sweet faces near together, with their rounded 
arms entwined : — 
And the rose-bud lips were moving, as if stirred in 
their reposing 

By the movements of the mind ! 

And your mother smoothed the pillow, and her sleep- 
ing treasures numbered, 
Whispering fondly — " He is dreaming " — as you 
turned upon your bed — 
And your father stooped to kiss you, happy dreamer, 
as you slumbered, 

With his hand upon your head ! 

Did he know the true deep meaning of his blessing? 
No ! he never 
Heard afar the summons uttered — "Come up 
hither " — Never knew 
How the awful Angel faces kept his sleeping boy 
forever. 

And forever in their view. 

Awful Faces, unimpassioned, silent Presences were 
by us, 
Shrouding wings — majestic beings — hidden by 
this earthly veil — 
Such as we have called on, saying, " Praise the Lord, 
O Ananias, 

Azarias and Misael ! 



HENRY. 469 

But we saw not, and who knowetb, what the mis- 
sioned Spirits taught him, 
To that one small bed drawn nearer, when we left 
him to their will? 
While he slumbered, who can answer for what 
dreams they ma}' have brought him, 

When at midnight all was still? 

Father ! Mother ! must you leave him on his bed, 
but not to slumber? 
Are the small hands meekly folded on his breast, 
but not to pray ? 
When you count your children over, must you tell a 
different number, 

Since that happier yesterday? 

Father! Mother! weep if need be, since this is a 
ct time" for weeping. 
Comfort comes not for the calling, grief is never 
argued down — 
Coldly sounds the admonition, w " Why lament? in 
better keeping- 
Rests the child than in your own." 

" Truth indeed ! but, oh ! compassion ! Have you 
sought to scan my sorrow ? " 
(Mother, you shall meekly ponder, list'ning to that 
common tale) 
" Does your heart repeat its echo, or by fellow- 
feeling borrow 

Even a tone that might avail? 

" Might avail to steal it from me, by its deep heart- 
warm affection ? 
Might perceive by strength of loving how the fond 
words to combine ? 
Surely no ! I will be silent, in your soul is no reflection 
Of the care that burdens mine ! " 



470 HENRY. 



When the winter twilight gathers, Father, and your 
thoughts shall wander, 
Sitting lonely you shall blend him with your list- 
less reveries, 
Half forgetful what division holds the form whereon 
you ponder 

From its place upon your knees — 

With a start of recollection, with a half-reproachful 
wonder, 
Of itself the heart shall question, " Art thou then 
no longer here ? 
Is it so, my little Henry ? Are we set so far asunder 
m Who were wont to be so near ? " 

While the fire-light dimly flickers, and the lengthened 
shades are meeting, 
To itself the heart shall answer, " He shall come 
to- me no more : 
I shall never bear his footsteps nor the child's sweet 
voice entreating 

For admission at my door." 

But upon your fair, fair forehead, no regrets nor 
griefs are dwelling, 
Neither sorrow nor disquiet do the peaceful fea- 
tures know ; 
Nor that look, whose wistful beauty seemed their 
sad hearts to be telling, 

" Daylight breaketh, let me go ! " 

Daylight breaketh, little Henry , in its beams your 
soul awaketh — 
What though night should close around us, dim 
and dreary to the view — 
Though our souls should walk in darkness, far away 
that morning breaketh 

Into endless day for you ! 



SAMUEL. 471 



SAMUEL, 

AGED NINE YEARS. 

They have left you, little Henry, but they have not 
left you lonely — 
Brothers' hearts so knit together could not, might 
not separate dwell, 
Fain to seek you in the mansions far away — One 
lingered only 

To bid those behind farewell ! 

Gentle Boy ! — His childlike nature in most guileless 
form was moulded, 
And it may be that his spirit woke in glory un- 
aware, 
Since so calmly he resigned it, with his hands still 
meekly folded, 

Having said his evening prayer. 

Or — if conscious of that summons " Speak, O Lord, 
Thy servant heareth " — 
As one said, whose name they gave him, might 
his willing answer be, 
" Here am I " — like him replying- — ' 4 At Thy gates 
my soul appeareth, 

For behold Thou calledst me ! " 

A deep silence — utter silence, on his earthly home 
descendeth : — 
Reading, playing, sleeping, waking — he is gone, 
and few remain ! 
" O the loss ! " — they utter, weeping — every voice 
its echo lendeth — 

" O the loss ! " — But, O the gain ! 



472 



SAMUEL. 



On that tranquil shore his spirit was vouchsafed au 
earl}' landing, 
Lest the toils of crime should stain it, or the thrall 
of guilt control — 
Lest that " wickedness should alter the yet simple 
understanding, 

Or deceit beguile his soul ! " 

"Lay not up on earth thy treasure" — they have 
read that sentence duly, 
Moth and rust shall fret thy riches — earthly good 
hath swift decay — 
"Even so," each heart replieth — "As for me, my 
riches truly 

Make them wings and flee away !" 

" O my riches ! — O my children ! — dearest part of 
life and being, 
Treasures looked to for the solace of this life's 
declining years, — 
Were our voices cold to hearing — or our faces cold 
to seeing, 

That ye left us to our tears ? " 

" We inherit conscious silence, ceasing of some 
merry laughter, 
And the hush of two sweet voices — (healing 
sounds for spirits bruised !) 
Of the tread of joyous footsteps in the pathway fol- 
lowing after, 

Of two names no longer used ! " 

Question for them, little Sister, in your sweet and 
childish fashion — 
Search and seek them, Baby Brother, with your 
calm and asking eyes — 
Dimpled lips that fail to utter fond appeal or sad 
compassion, 

Mild regret or dim surprise ! 



SAMUEL. 47 ^ 



There are two tall trees above you, by the high east 
window growing, 
Underneath them, slumber sweetly, lapt in silence 
deep, serene ; 
Save, when pealing in the distance, organ notes to- 
wards you flowing 

Echo — with a pause between ! 
And that pause? — a voice shall fill it — tones that 
blessed you daily, nightly, 
Well beloved, but not sufficing, Sleepers, to awake 
you now. 
Though so near he stand, that shadows from your 
trees may tremble lightly 

On his book and on his brow ! 
Sleep then ever ! Neither singing of sweet birds shall 
break your slumber, 
Neither fall of dew, nor sunshine, dance of leaves, 
nor drift of snow, 
Charm those drop! lids more to open, nor the tran- 
quil bosoms cumber 

With one care for things below ! 

It is something, the assurance, that you ne'er shall 
feel like sorrow, 
Weep no past and dread no future— know not 
sighing, feel not pain — 
Nor a day that looketh forward to a mournfuller to- 
morrow — 

" Clouds returning after rain ! " 

No, far off, the daylight breaketh, in its beams each 
soul awaketh : 
" What though clouds," they sigh, " be gathered 
dark and stormy to the view, 
Though the light our eyes forsaketh, fresh and sweet 
behold it breaketh 

Into endless day for vou ! " 



4 71 KATIE, AGED FIVE YEARS. 

KATIE, AGED FIVE YEARS. 
(asleep in the daytime.) 

All rough winds are hushed and silent, golden light 
the meadow steepeth, 
And the last October roses daily wax more pale 
and fair ; 
They have laid a gathered blossom on the breast of 
one who sleepetli 

With r„ sunbeam on her hair. 

Calm, and draped in snowy raiment phe lies still, as 
one that dreameth, 
And a grave sweet smile hath parted dimpled lips 
that may not speak ; 
Slanting down that narrow sunbeam like a ray of 
glory gleameth 

On the sainted brow and cheek. 

There is silence ! They who watch her, spe:ik no 
word of grief or wailing, 
In a strange unwonted calmness they gaze on and 
cannot cease, 
Though the pulse of life beat faintly, thought shrink 
back, and hope be failing, 

They, like Aaron, u hold their peace." 

While they gaze on her, the deep bell with its long 
slow pauses soundeth ; 
Long they hearken — father — mother — love has 
nothing more to say : 
Beating time to feet of Angels leading her where 
love aboundeth 

Tolls the heavy bell this day. 



KATIE, AGED FIVE YEARS 475 

Still in silence to its tolling they count over all her 
ineetness 
To be near their hearts and soothe them in ail sor- 
rows and all fears ; 
Her short life lies spread before them, but they 
cannot tell her sweetness, 

Kasily as tell her years. 

Only daughter — Ah! how fondly Thought around 
that lost name lingers, 
Oft when lone your mother sitteth, she shall weep 
and droop her head, 
She shall mourn her baby-sempstress, with those 
imitative lingers. 

Drawing out her aimless thread. 

In your father's Future cometh many a sad uncheered 
to-morrow, 

But in sleep shall three fair faces heavenly-calin 
towards him Lean — 
Like a threefold cord shall draw him through the 
weariness of sorrow. 

Nearer to the things unseen. 

With the closing of your eyelids close the dreams of 

expectation, [their way : 

And bo ends the fairest chapter in the records of 

Therefore — O thou God most holy — God of rest 

and consolation, 

He thou near to them this day ! 

lie Thou near, when they shall nightly, by the bed 
of infant brothers, 
Hear their soft and gentle breathing, and shall 
bless them on their knees ; 

And shall think how coldly falleth the white moon- 
light on the others, 

In their bed beneath the trees. 



4'/6 KATIE, AGED FIVE YEARS. 

Be Thou near, when they, they only, bear those faces 
in remembrance, 
And the number of their children strangers ask 
them with a smile ; 
And when other childlike faces touch them by the 
strong resemblance 

To those turned to them ere while. 

Be Thou near, each chastened Spirit for its course 
and conflict nerving, 
Let Thy voice say, u Father — mother — lo ! thy 
treasures live above ! 
Now be strong, be strong, no longer cumbered over 
much with serving 

At the shrine of human love." 

Let them sleep ! In course of ages e'en the Holy 

House shall crumble, [its decline, 

And the broad and stately steeple one day bend to 

And high arches, ancient arches bowed and decked 

in clothing humble, 

Creeping moss shall round them twine. 

Ancient arches, old and hoary, sunny beams shall 
glimmer through them, 
And invest them with a beauty we would fain they 
should not share, 
And the moonlight slanting down them, the white 
moonlight shall imbue them 

With a sadness dim and fair. 

Then the soft green moss shall wrap you, and the 
world shall all forget you, 
Life, and stir, and toil, and tumult unawares shall 
pass you by ; 
Generations come and vanish : but it shall not grieve 
nor fret you, 

That they sin, or that they sigh. 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 477 

And the world, growing old in sinning - , shall deny 
her first beginning, 
And think scorn of words which whisper how that 
till must pass away ; 
Time's arrest and intermission shall account a vain 
tradition, 

And a dream, the reckoning day ! 

Till His blast, a blast of terror, shnll awake in shame 
and sadness 
Faithless millions to a vision of the failing earth 
and skies, 
And more sweet than song of Angels, in their shout 
of joy and gladness, 

Call the dead in Christ to rise! 

Then, by One Man's intercession, standing clear 
from their transgression. 
Father — mother — yon shall meet them fairer than 
they were before, 
And have joy with the Redeemed, joy ear hath not 
heard — heart dreamed, 

Av forever — evermore ! 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 
I. 

MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 

Lying imbedded in the green champaign 
That gives no shadow to thy silvery face, 

Open to all the heavens, and all their train, 

The marshalled clouds that cross with stately pace, 

No steadfast hills on thee reflected rest, 

Nor waver with the dimpling of thy breast. 



47S THE TWO MARGARETS. 

O, silent Mere ! about whose marges spring 
Thick bulrushes to hide the reed-bird's uest ; 

Where, the shy ousel dips her glossy wing, 
And balanced in the water takes her rest : 

While under bending leaves, all gem-arrayed, 

Blue dragon-ilies sit panting in the shade : 

Warm, stilly place, the sundew loves thee well, 
And the greensward comes creeping to thy brink, 

And golden saxifrage and pimpernel 

Lean down to thee their perfumed heads to drink ; 

And heavy with the weight of bees doth bend 

White clover, and beneath thy wave descend : 

While the sweet scent of bean-fields, floated wide 

On a long eddy of the lightsome air 
Over the level mead to thy lone side, 

Doth lose itself among thy zephyrs rare, 
With wafts from hawthorn bowers and new-cut hay, 
And blooming orchards lying far away. 

Thou hast thy Sabbaths, when a deeper calm 
Descends upon thee, quiet Mere, and then 

There is a sound of bells,, a far-off psalm 

From gray church towers, that swims across the 
fen ; 

And the light sigh where grass and waters meet, 

Is thy meek welcome to the visit sweet. 

Thou hast thy lovers. Though the angler's rod 
Dimple thy surface seldom ; though the oar 

Fill not with silvery globes thy fringing sod, 
Nor send long ripples to thy lonely shore ; 

Though few, as in a glass, have cared to trace 

The smile of nature moving on thy face ; 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 479 

Thou hast thy lovers truly. 'Mid the cold 

Of northern turns the wild-fowl dream of thee, 

And, keeping thee in mind, their wings unfold, 
And shape their course, high soaring, till they see 

Down in the world, like molten silver, rest 

Their goal, and screaming plunge them in thy breast. 

Fair Margaret, who sittest all day long 
On the gray stone beneath the sycamore, 

The bowering tree with branches lithe and strong, 
The only one to grace the level shore, 

Why dost thou wait? for whom with patient cheer 

Gaze yet so wistfully adown the Mere? 

Thou canst not tell, thou dost not know, alas ! 

Long watchings leave behind them little trace; 
And yet how sweetly must the mornings pass, 

That bring that dreamy calmness to thy face! 
How quickly must the evenings come that find 
Thee still regret to leave the Mere behind ! 

Thy cheek is resting on thy hand ; thine eyes 
Are like twin violets hut half enclosed, 

And quiet as the deeps in yonder skies. 
Never more peacefully in love reused 

A mother's gaze upon her offspring dear, 

Thau thine upon the long far-stretching Mere. 

Sweet innocent ! Thy yellow hair floats low 
In rippling undulations on thy breast, 

Then stealing down the parted love-locks flow, 
Bathed in a. sunbeam on thy knees to rest, 

And touch those idle hands that folded lie, 

Having from sport and toil a like immunity, 

Through thy life's dream with what a touching grace 

Childhood attends thee, nearly woman grown ; 
Her dimples linger yet upon thy face, 



4 So THE TWO MARGARETS, 

Like dews upon a lily this day blown ; 
Thy sighs are bora of peace, unruffled, deep ; 
So the babe sighs on mother's breast asleep. 

It sighs, and wakes, — but thou ! thy dream is all, 
And thou wert born for it, and it for thee ; 

Mom doth not take thy heart, nor even-fall 
Charm out its sorrowful fidelity, 

Nor noon beguile thee from the pastoral shore, 

And thy long watch beneath the sycamore. 

No, down the Mere, as far as eye can see, 
Where its long reaches fade into the sky, 

Thy constant gaze, fair child, rests lovingly; 
But neither thou nor any can descry 

Aught but the grassy banks, the rustling sedge, 

And flocks of wild-fowl, splashing at their edge. 

And yet 'tis not with expectation hushed 

That thy mute rosy mouth doth pouting close ; 

No fluttering hope to thy young heart e'er rushetf v 
Nor disappointment troubled its repose ; 

All satisfied with gazing evermore 

Along the sunny Mere and reedy shore. 

The brooding #ren flies pertly near thy seat, 
Thou wilt not move to mark her glancing wing: 

The timid sheep browse close before thy feet, 
And heedless at thy side do thrushes sing, 

So long amongst them thou hast spent thy days, 

They know that harmless hand thou wilt not raise 

Thou wilt not lift it up — not e'en to take 
The foxglove bells that flourish in the shade, 

And put them in thy bosom ; not to make 
A posy of wild hyacinth inlaid 

Like bright mosaic in the mossy grass, 

With freckled orchis and pale sassafras. 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 4 8x 

Gaze on ; — take in the voices of the Mere, 
The break of shallow water at thy feet, 

Its splash among long- reeds ami grasses sere, 
And its weird sobbing, ■ — hollow music meet 

For ears like thine ; listen and talk thy fill, 

And dream on it by night, when all is still. 

Full sixteen years have slowly passed away, 
Young Margaret, since thy fond mother here 

Came down, a six mouths' wife, one April dav, 
To see her husband's boat go down the Mere, 

And track its course, till, lost in distance blue, 

In mellow light it faded from her view. 

It faded, and she never saw it more ; — 

Nor any human eye ; — oh, grief! oh, woe ! 

It faded, — and returned not to shore ; 
But far above it still the waters flow — 

And none beheld it sink, and none could tell 

Where coldly slept the form she loved so well ! 

But that sad day, unknowing of her fate, 

She homeward turn'd her still reluctant feet ; 

And at her wheel she spun, till dark and late, 
The evening fell ; — the time when, they should 
meet ; — 

Till the stars paled that at deep midnight burned — 

And morning dawned, and he was not returned. 

And the brightsun came up, — she thought too soon.— 

And shed his ruddy light along the Mere ; 
And day wore on too quickly, and at noon 
She came and wept beside the waters clear. 
4i How could he be so late ? " — and then hope fled ; 
And disappointment darkned into dread. 

He never came, and she with weepings sore 
Peered in the water-flags unceasingly ; 



482 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

Through all the undulations of the shore, 

Looking for that which most she feared to see. 
And then she took home sorrow to her heart, 
And brooded over its cold, cruel smart. 

And after, desolate she sat alone 

And mourned, refusing to be comforted, 

On the gray stone, the moss-embroidered stone. 
With the great sycamore above her head ; 

Till after many days a broken oar 

Hard by her seat was drifted to the shore. 

It came, — a token of his fate, — the whole, 
The sum of her misfortune to reveal ; 

As if sent up in pity to her soul, 

The tidings of her widowhood to seal ; 

And put away the pining hope forlorn. 

That made her grief more bitter to be borne. 

And she was patient ; through the weary day 

She toiled ; though none was there her work to 
bless, 

And did not wear the sullen months away, 
Nor call on death to end her wretchedness, 

But lest the grief should overflow her breast, 

She toiled as heretofore, and would not rest. 

But, her work done, what time the evening star 
Rose over the cool water, then she came 

To the gray stone, and saw its light from far 

Drop down the misty Mere white lengths of flame, 

And wondered whether there might be the place 

Where the soft ripple wandered o'er his face. 

Unfortunate ! In solitude forlorn 

She dwelt, and thought upon her husband's grave, 
Till when the days crew short a child was born 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 483 

To the dead father underneath the wave ; 
And it brought back a remnant of delight, 
A little sunshine to its mother's sight ; 

A little wonder to her heart grown numb, 
And a sweet yearning pitiful and keen : 

She took it as from that poor father come, 
Her and the misery to stand between ; 

Her little maiden babe, who day by. day 

Sucked at her breast and charmed her woes away. 

But years Hew on ; the child was still the same, 
Nor human language she had learned to speak ; 

Her lips were mute, and seasons went and came, 
And brought fresh beauty to her tender cheek; 

And all the day upon the sunny shore 

She sat and mused beneath the sycamore. 

Strange sympathy ! she watched and wearied not, 
Haply unconscious what it was she sought ; 

Her mother's tale she easily forgot, 

And if she listened no warm tears it brought; 

Though surely in the yearnings of her heart 

The unknown voyager must have had his part. 

Unknown to her; like all she saw unknown, 
All sights were fresh as when they first began, 

All sounds were new ; each murmur and each tone 
And cause and consequence she could not scan, 

Forgot that night brought darkness in its train. 

Nor reasoned that the day would come again. 

There is a happiness in past regret ; 

And echoes of the harshest sound are sweet. 
The mother's soul was struck with grief, and yet. 

Repeated in her child, 'twas not unmeet 
That echo-like the grief a tone should take 
Painless, but ever pensive for her sake. 



484 THE TWO MARGARETS. 



For her dear sake, whose patient soul was linked 
By ties so many to the babe unborn ; 

Whose hope, by slow degrees become extiuct, 
For evermore had left her child forlorn, 

Yet left no consciousness of want or woe, 

Nor wonder vague that these things should be so. 

Truly her joys were limited and few, 

But they sufficed a life to satisfy, 
That neither fret nor dim foreboding knew, 

But breathed the air in a great harmony 
With its own place and part, and was at one 
With all it knew of earth and moon and sun. 

For all of them were worked into the dream, — 
The husky sighs of wheat-fields in it wrought ; 

All the land-miles belonged to it ; the stream 
That fed the Mere ran through it like a thought. 

It was a passion of peace, and loved to wait 

'Neath boughs with fair green light illuminate ; 

To wait with her alone ; always alone : 

For any that drew near she heeded not, 
Wanting them little as the lily grown 

Apart from others, in a shady plot, 
Wants fellow-lilies of like fair degree, 
In her still glen to bear her company. 
Always alone : and yet, there was a child 

Who loved this child, and, from his turret towers 
Across the lea would roam to where, in-isled 

And fenced in rapturous silence, went her hours, 
And, with slow footsteps drawn anear the place 
Where mute she sat, would ponder on her face, 

And wonder at her with a childish awe, 
And come again to look, and yet again, 

Till the sweet rippling of the Mere would draw 
His longing to itself ; while in her train 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 4S5 

The water-hen come forth, would bring her brood 
From slumbering in. the rushy solitude ; 

Or to their young would curlews call and clang 
Their homeless young that down the furrows 
creep ; 

Or the wind-hover in the blue would hang, 
Still as a rock set in the watery deep. 

Then from her presence he would break awaj\ 

Unmarked, ungreeted yet, from day to day. 

But older grown, the Mere he haunted yet, 

And a strange joy from its wild sweetness caught ; 

Whilst careless sat alone maid Margaret, 

And " shut the gates" of silence on her thought, 

All through spring mornings gemmed with melted 
rime, 

All through hay-harvest and through gleaning time. 

O pleasure for itself that boyhood makes, 
O happiness to roam the sighing shore, 

Plough up with elfin craft the water-Hakes, 
And track the nested rail with cautious oar; 

Then floating lie and look with wonder new 

Straight up in the great dome of light and blue. 

O pleasure ! yet they took him from the wold, 
The reedy Mere, and all his pastime there. 

The place where he was born, and would grow old 
If God his life so many years should spare ; 

From the loved haunts of childhood and the plain 

And pasture-lauds of his own broad domain. 

And he came down when wheat was in the sheaf, 
And with her fruit the apple-branch bent low, 

While yet in August glory hung the leaf, 
And flowerless aftermath beean to o-row ; 

He came from his gray turrets to the shore, 

And sought the maid beneath the sycamore. 



4 86 THE TWO MARGARETS. 



He sought her, not because her tender eyes 

Would brighten at his coming, for he knew 
Full seldom any thought of him would rise 

In her fair breast when he had passed from view ; 
But for his own love's sake, that unbeguiled 
Drew him in spirit to the silent child. 
For boyhood in its better hour is prone 

To reverence what it hath not understood ; 
And he had thought some heavenly meaning shone 

From her clear eyes, that made their watchings 
good ; 
While a great peacef ulness of shade was shed 
Like oil of consecration on her head. 
A fishing wallet from his shoulder slung, 

With bounding foot he reached the mossy place, 
A little moment gently o'er her hung, 

Put back her hair and looked upon her face, 
Then fain from that deep dream to wake her yet, 
He " Margaret ! " low murmured, tk Margaret ! 
" Look at me once before I leave the land, 

For I am going, — going, Margaret." 
And then she sighed, and, lifting up her hand, 

Laid it along his young fresh cheek, and set 
Upon his face those blue twin-deeps, her eyes, 
And moved it back from her in troubled wise, 
Because he came between her and her fate, 

The Mere. She sighed again as one oppressed ; 
The waters, shining clear, with delicate 

Reflections wavered on her blameless breast ; 
And through the branches dropt, like flickerings f air. 
And played upon her hands and on her hair. 

And he, withdrawn a little space to see, 

Murmured in tender ruth that was not pain, 
" Farewell, I go; but sometimes think of me, 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 4S7 



Maid Margaret ; " and there came by again 
A whispering in the reed-beds and the sway 
Of waters : then he turned and went his way. 

And wilt thon think on him now he is gone? 

No ; thou wilt gaze : though thy young eyes grow 
dim, 
And thy soft cheek become all pale and wan, 

Still thou wilt gaze, and spend no thought on him ; 
There* is no sweetness in his laugh for thee — 
No beauty in his fresh heart's gayety. 

But wherefore linger in deserted haunts? 

Why of the past, as if yet present, sing? 
The yellow iris on the margin Haunts, 

With hyacinth the banks are blue in spring, 
And under dappled clouds the lark afloat 
Pours all the April-tide from her sweet throat. 

But Margaret — ah ! thou art there no more, 

And thick dank moss creeps over thy gray stone ; 

Thy path is lost that skirted the low shore, 
With willow-grass and speedwell overgrown ; 

Thine eye has closed forever, and thine ear 

Drinks in no more the music of the Mere. 

The boy shall come — shall come again in spring, 
Well pleased that pastoral solitude to share, 

And some kind offering in his hand will bring 
To cast into thy lap, O maid most fair — 

Some clasping gem about thy neck to rest, 

Or heave and glimmer on thy guileless breast* 

And he shall wonder why thou art not here 
The solitude with " smiles to entertain," 

And gaze along the reaches of the Mere; 
But he shall never see thy face again — 

Shall never see upon the reedy shore 

Maid Margaret beneath her sycamore. 



4 88 THE TV/0 MARGARETS. 



II. 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 

["Concerning this man (Robert Delacour), little further is known 
than that he served in the king's army, and was wounded in the battle of 
Marston Moor, being then about twenty-seven years of age. After ihe 
battle of Naseby, finding himself a marked man, he quitted the country, 
taking with him the child whom he had adopted ; and he made many 
voyages between the different ports of the Mediterranean and Levant."] 

Resting within his tent at turn of da}', 
A wailing voice his scanty sleep beset : 

He started up — it did not flee away — 

'Twas no part of his dream, but still did fret 

And pine into his heart, " Ah me ! ah me ! " 

Broken with heaving sobs right mournfully. 

Then he arose, and, troubled at this thing, 

All wearily toward the voice he weut 
Over the down-trodden bracken and the ling, 

Until it brought him to a soldier's tent, 
Where, with the tears upon her face, he found 
A little maiden weeping on the ground ; 

And backward in the tent an aged crone 
Upbraided her full harshly more and more, 

But sunk her chiding to an undertone 

When she beheld him standing at the door, 

And calmed her voice, and dropped her lifted hand, 

And answered him with accent soft and bland. 

No, the young child was none of hers, she said, 
But she had found her where the ash lay white 

About a smouldering tent ; her infant head 
All shelterless, she through the dewy night 

Had slumbered on the field, — ungentle fate 

For a lone child so soft and delicate. 



MARGARET EV THE XEBEC. 



4S9 



" And I," quoth she, " have tended her with care, 
And thought to be rewarded of her kin, 

For by her rich attire and features fair 
I know her birth is gentle : yet within 

The tent unclaimed she doth but pine and weep, 

A burden I would fain no longer keep." 

Still while she spoke the little creature wept, 
Till painful pity touched him for the flow 

Of all those tears, and to his heart there crept 
A yearning as of fatherhood, and lo ! 

Reaching his arms to her, " My sweet," quoth he, 

44 Dear little madam, wilt thou come with me?" 

Then she left off her crying, and a look 
Of wistful wonder stole into her eyes. 

The sullen frown her dimpled face forsook, 
She let him take her, and forgot her sighs, 

Contented in his alien arms to rest, 

And lay her baby head upon his breast. 

Ah, sure a stranger trust was never sought 

By any soldier on a battle-plain. 
He brought her to his tent, and soothed his voice, 

Rough with command ; and asked, but all in vain 
Her story, while her prattling tongue rang sweet, 
She playing, as one at home, about his feet. 

Of race, of country, or of parentage, 

Her lisping accents nothing could unfold ; — 

No questioning could win to read the page 
Of her short life ; — she left her tale untold, 

And home and kin thus early to forget, 

She only knew, — her name was — Margaret. 

Then in the dusk upon his arm it chanced 
That night that suddenly she fell asleep ; 

And he looked down on her like one entranced, 
And listened to her breathing still and deep, 



49° 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 



As if a little child, when daylight closed, 
With half -shut lids had ne'er before reposed. 

Softly he laid her down from off his arm, 
With earnest care and new-born tenderness - 

Her infancy, a wonder-working charm, 

Laid hold upon his love ; he stayed to bless 

The small sweet head, then went he forth that night 

And sought a nurse to tend this new delight. 

And day by day his heart she wrought upon, 
And won her wa}' into its inmost fold — 

A heart which, but for lack of that whereon 
To fix itself, would never have been cold ; 

And, opening wide, now let her come to dwell 

Within its strong unguarded citadel. 

She, like a dream, unlocked the hidden springs 
Of his past thoughts, and set their current free 

To talk with him of half-forgotten things — 
The pureness and the peace of infancy, 

14 Thou also, thou," to sigh, " wort undented 

(0 God, the change !) once, as this little child." 

The baby-mistress of a soldier's heart, 

She had but friendlessness to stand her friend, 

And her own orphanhood to plead her part. 
When he, a wayfarer, did pauge, and bend, 

And bear with him the starry blossom sweet 

Out of its jeopardy from trampling feet. 

A gleam of light upon a rainy day, 

A new-tied knot that must be severed soon, 

At sunrise once before his tent at play, 
And hurried from the battle- field at noon. 

While face to face in hostile ranks they stood, 

Who should have dwelt in peace and brotherhood. 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 491 

But ere the light, when higher rose the sun, 
And yet were distant far the rebel bands, 

She heard at intervals a booming gun, 

And she was pleased, and laughing elapped her 
hands ; 

Till he came in with troubled look and tone, 

Who ehose her desolate to be his own. 

And he said, " Little madam, now farewell, 
For there will be a battle fought ere night. 

God be thy shield, for lie alone can tell 

Which way may fall the fortune of the fight. 

To fitter hands the care of thee pertain, 

My dear, if we two never meet again." 

Then he gave money shortly to her nurse, 
And charged her Btraitly to depart in haste, 

And leave the plain, whereon the deadly curse 
()1* war should light with ruin, death, and waste, 

And all the ills that must its presence blight, 

E'en if proud victory should bless the right. 

44 But if the rebel cause should prosper, then 
It were not good among the hills to wend ; 

But journey through to Boston in the fen. 

And wait for peace, if peace our God shall send ; 

And if my life is spared, I will essay," 

Quoth he, "to join you there as be>t I may." 

So then he kissed the child, and went his way ; 

lint many troubles rolled above his head; 
Th,' sun arose on many an evil day, 

And cruel deeds were done, and tears were shed; 
And hope was lost, and loj'al hearts were fain 
In dust to hide, — ere they two met again. 

80 passed the little child from thought, from view — 
(The snowdrop blossoms, and then is not there, 



492 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

Forgotten till men welcome it anew), 

He found her in his heavy days of care, 
And with her dimples was again beguiled, 
As on her nurse's knee she sat and smiled. 

And he became a voyager by sea, 

And took the child to share his wandering state ; 
Since from his native land compelled to flee, 

And hopeless to avert her monarch's fate ; 
For all was lost that might have made him pause, 
And, past a soldier's help, the royal cause. 

And thus rolled on long days, long months and 
years, 

And Margaret within the Xebec sailed ; 
The lulling wind made music in her ears, 

And nothing to her life's completeness failed. 
Her pastime 'twas to see the dolphins spring, 
And wonderful live rainbows glimmering. 

The gay sea-plants familiar were to her, 
As daisies to the children of the land ; 

Iced wavy dulse the sunburnt mariner 

Raised from its bed to glisten in her hand ; 

The vessel and the sea were her life's stage — 

Her house, her garden, and her hermitage. 

Also she had a cabin of her own, 

For beauty like an elfin palace bright, 

With Venice glass adorned, and crystal stone, 
That trembled with a many-colored light ; 

And there with two caged ringdoves she did play, 

And feed them carefully from day to day. 

Her bed with silken curtains was enclosed, 
White as the snowy rose of Guelderland ; 

On Turkish pillows her young head reposed, 
And love had gathered with a careful hand 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 493 



Fair playthings to the little maiden's side, 
From distant ports, and cities parted wide. 

She had two myrtle-plants that she did tend, 

And think all trees were like to them that grew ; 

For things on land she did confuse and blend, 
And chiefly from the deck the land she knew, 

And in her heart she pitied more and more 

The steadfast dwellers on the changeless shore. 

Green fields and inland meadows faded out 
Of mind, or with sea-images were linked ; 

And vet she had her childish thoughts about 
The country she had left — though indistinct 

And faint as mist the mountain-head that shrouds, 

Or dim through distance as Magellan's do-ids. 

And when to frame a forest seen.' Bhe tried, 
The ever-present sea would yet intrude, 

And all her towns were by the water's side, 
It murmured in all moorland solitude, 

Where rocks and the ribbed sand w< uld intervene, 

And waves would edge her fancied village green; 

Because her heart was like an ocean shell, 

That holds (in n say) a message from the deep; 
And vet the land was strong, she knew its spell, 

And harbor lights could draw her in her Bleep; 
And minster chimes from pierced towers that swim, 
Were the Land-angels making God a hymn. 

So she grew on. the idol of one heart, 
And the delighl of many — and her face, 

Thus dwelling chiefly from her sex apart. 

Was touched with a most deep and tender grace — 

A look that never aught but nature gave, 

Artless, yet thoughtful; innocent, yet grave. 



494 THE TWO MARGARETS. 



Strange her adornings were, and strangely blent : 
A golden net confined her nut-brown hair ; 

Quaint were the robes that divers lands had lent, 
And quaint her aged nurse's skill and care ; 

Yet did they well on the sea-maiden meet, 

Circle her neck, and grace her dimpled feet. 

The sailor folk were glad because of her, 

And deemed good fortune followed in her wake ; 

She was their guardian saint, they did aver — 
Prosperous winds were sent them for her sake ; 

And strange rough vows, strange prayers, they 
nightly made, 

While, storm or calm, she slept, in naught afraid. 

Clear were her eyes, that daughter of the sea, 
Sweet, when uplifted to her aged nurse, 

She sat, and communed what the world could be ; 
And rambling stories caused her to rehearse 

How Yule was kept, how maiden- tossed the hay, 

And how bells rang upon a wedding day. 

But they grew brighter when the evening star 
First trembled over the still glowing wave, 

That bathed in ruddy light, mast, sail, and spar ; 
For then, reclined in rest that twilight gave, 

With him who served for father, friend, and guide, 

She sat apon the deck at eventide. 

Then turned towards the west, that on her hair 
And her young cheek shed down its tender glow, 

He taught her many things with earnest care 

That he thought fitting a young maid should know, 

Told of the good deeds of the worthy dead, 

And prayers devout, by faithful martyrs said. 

And many psalms he caused her to repeat 

And sing <,hem, at his knees reclined the while, 



MARGARET TV THE XEBEC. 495 

And spoke with her in all things good and meet, 

And told the story of her Dative isle, 
Till at the end In' made her tears to How, 
Rehearsing of his royal muster's woe. 

And of the stars he taught her, and their names, 
And how the chartless mariner they guide ; 

Of quivering light that in the zenith ihimes, 
Of monsters in the deep sea caves that hide ; 

Then changed the theme to fairy records wild, 

Enchanted moor, elf dame, or changeling child. 

To her the Eastern lands their strangeness spread, 

The dark-faced. Aral) in his long bine gown, 
The camel thrusting down a snake-like head 

To browse on thorns outside a walled white town, 
Where palmy clusters rank by rank upright 
Float as in quivering lakes of ribbed light. 
And when X\\: ship sat like a broad-winged bird 

Becalmed, lo, lions answered in the night 
Their fellows, all the hollow dark was stirred 

To echo on that tremulous thunder's night, 
Dying in weird faint moans ; — till, look ! the sun 
And night, and all the things of night, were done. 

And they, toward the waste as morning brake, 
Turned, where, in-isled in his green watered land, 

The Lybian Zeus lay couched of old, and spake, 
Hemmed in with leagues of furrow-faced sand — 

Then saw the moon (like Joseph's golden cup 

Come back) behind some ruined roof swim up. 

But blooming childhood will not always last, 
And storms will rise e'en on the tideless sea ; 

His guardian love took fright, she grew so fast, 
And he began to think how sad 'twould be 

If he should die, and pirate hordes should get 

By sword or shipwreck his fair Margaret. 



496 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

It was a sudden thought ; but he gave way, 
For it assailed him with unwonted force ; 

And, with no more than one short week's delay, 
For English shores he shaped the vessel's course > 

And ten years absent saw her landed now, 

With thirteen summers on her maiden brow. 

And so he journeyed with her, far inland, 

Down quiet lanes, by hedges gemmed with dew, 

Where wonders met her eye on every hand, 
And all was beautiful and strange and new — 

All, from the forest trees in stately ranks, 

To yellow cowslips trembling on the banks. 

All new — the long-drawn slope of evening shades. 
The sweet solemnities of waxing light, 

The white-haired boys, the blushing rustic maids, 
The ruddy gleam through cottage casements bright* 

The green of pastures, bloom of garden nooks, 

And endless bubbling of the water-brooks. 

So far he took them on through this green land, 
The maiden and her nurse, till journeying 

They saw at last a peaceful city stand 

On a steep mount, and heard its clear bells ring. 

High were the towers and rich with ancient state. 

In its old wall enclosed and massive gate. 

'There dwelt a worthy matron whom he knew, 
To whom in time of war he gave good aid, 

Shielding her household from the plundering crew 
When neither law could bind nor worth persuade ; 

And to her house he brought his care and pride, 

Aweary with the way and sleepy-eyed. 

And he, the man whom she was fain to serve, 

Delayed not shortly his request to make, 
Which was, if aught of her he did deserve* 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 4 $ 7 

To take the maid, and rear her for his sake, 
To guard her youth," and let her breeding be 
In womanly reserve and modesty. 

And that same night into the house he brought 
The costly fruits of all his voyages — 

Rich Indian gems of wandering craftsmen wrought 
Long ropes of pearls from Persian palaces, 

With ingots pure and coins of Venice mould, 

And silver bars and bags of Spanish gold ; 

And costly merchandise of far-off lands, 

And golden stuffs and shawls of Eastern dye, 

He gave them over to the matron's hands, 
With jewelled gauds, and toys of ivory, 

To be her dower on whom his love was set, — 

His dearest child, fair Madam Margaret. 

Then he entreated, that if he should die, 

She would not cease her guardian mission mild. 

Awhile, as undecided, lingered nigh, 
Beside the pillow of the sleeping child, 

Severed one wandering lock of wavy hair, 

Took horse that night, and left her unaware. 

And it was long before he came again — 
So long that Margaret was woman grown ; 

And oft she wished for his return in vain, 
Calling him softly in an undertone ; 

Repeating words that he had said the while, 

And striving to recall his look and smile. 

If she had known — oh, if she could have known — 
The toils, the hardships of those absent years—. 

How bitter thraldom forced the unwilling groan — 
How slavery wrung out subduing tears, 

Not calmly had she passed her hours away. 

Chiding half pettishly the long delay. 



498 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

But she was spared. She knew no sense of harm, 
While the red flames ascended from the deck ; 

Sr w not the pirate band the crew disarm, 

Mourned not the floating spars, the smoking wreck. 

She did not dream, and there was none to tell 

That fetters bound the hands she loved so well. 

Sweet Margaret — -withdrawn from human view, 
She spent long hours beneath the cedar shade, 

The stately trees that in the garden grew, 
And, overtwined, a towering shelter made ; 

She mused among the flowers, and birds, and bees, 

In winding walks, and bowering canopies ; 

Or wandered slowly through the ancient rooms, 
Where oriel windows shed their rainbow gleams; 

And tapestried hangings, wrought in Flemish looms 
Displayed the story of King Pharaoh's dreams ; 

And, come at noon because the well was deep, 

Beautiful Rachel leading down her sheep. 

At last she reached the bloom of womanhood, 

After five summers spent in growing fair; 
Her face betokened all things dear and good, 

The light of somewhat yet to come was there 
Asleep, and waiting for the opening day, 
When childish thoughts, like flowers, would drift 

away. 
O ! we are far too happ}~ while they last ; 

We have our good things first, and they cost 
naught ; 
Then the new splendor comes unfathomed, vast, 

A costly trouble, ay, a sumptuous thought, 
And will not wait, and cannot be possessed, 
Though infinite yearnings fold it to the breast. 

And time, that seemed so long, is fleeting by, 
And life is more than life ; love more than love ; 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC 4Q0 



We have not found the whole — and we must die — 

And still the unclasped glory floats above. 
The inmost and the utmost faint from sight, 
Forever secret in their veil of light. 

lie not too hasty in your flow, you rhymes, 
For Margaret is in her garden bower; 

Delay to ring, you soft cathedral chimes, 

And tell not out too soon the noontide hour; 

For one draws nearer to your ancient town, 

On the green mount down settled like a crown. 

He journeyed on and, as he neared the gate, 
lie met with one to whom he named the maid, 

Enquiring of \\^v welfare, and her state, 

And of the matron in whose house she stayed. 

-The maiden dwell there yet," the townsman said; 

'' lint, for the ancient lady, — she was dead." 

He further said, she was but little known, 

Although reputed to be very fair. 
And little seen 'so much she dwelt alone) 

But with her nurse at stated morning prayer; 
So seldom passed her sheltering garden wall, 
( )r left the gate at quiet evening fall. 

Flow softly, rhymes — his hand is on the door; 

Ring out, ye noonday bells, his welcoming — 
tk He went out rich, but he reiurncth poor ; " 

And strong — now something bowed with suffering ; 
And on his brow are traced long furrowed lines, 
Famed in the light with pirate Algerines. 

Her aged nurse comes hobbling :it his call ; 

Lifts up her withered hand in dull surprise, 
And, tottering, leads him through the pillared hall; 

- What! come at last to bless my lady's eyes ! 



500 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

Dear heart, sweet heart, she's grown a likesome 

maid — 
Go, seek her where she sitteth in the shade." 

The noonday chime had ceased — she did not know 

Who watched her, while her ringdoves fluttered 
near : 
While, under the green boughs, in accents low 

She sang unto herself. She did not hear 
His footsteps till she turned, then rose to meet 
Her guest with guileless blush and wonder sweet. 
But soon she knew him, came with quickened pace, 

And put her gentle hands about his neck ; 
And leaned her fair check to his sunburned face T 

As long ago upon the vessel's deck : 
As long ago she did in twilight deep, 
When heaving waters lulled her infant sleep. 
So then he kissed her, as men kiss their own, 

And, proudly parting her unbraided hair, 
He said : " I did not think to see thee srown 

So fair a woman." — but a touch of care 
The deep-toned voice through its caressing kept, 
And, hearing it, she turned away and wept. 
Wept, — for an impress on the face she viewed — 

The stamp of feelings she remembered not ; 
His voice was calmer now, but more subdued, 

Not like the voice long loved and unforgot ! 
She felt strange sorrow and delightful pain — 
Grief for the change, joy that he came again. 

O pleasant days, that followed his return, 

That made his captive years pass out of mind ; 

If life had yet new pains for him to learn, 

Not in the maid's clear eyes he saw it shrined •, 

And three full weeks he stayed with her, content 

To find her beautiful and innocent. 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 501 

It was all one in bis contented sight 

As though she were a child, till suddenly, 

Waked of the chimes in the dead time of the night 
He fell to thinking how the urgency 

Of Fate had dealt with him, and could but sigh 

For those best things wherein she passed him by. 

Down the long river of life how, cast adrift, 
She urged him on. still on, to sink or swim ; 

And all at once, as if a veil did lift, 

In the dead time of the night, and bare to him 

The want in his deep soul, he looked, was dumb, 

And knew himself, and knew his time was come. 

In the dead time of the night his soul did sound 
The dark sea of a trouble unforeseen. 

For that one sweet that to his life was bound 
Had turned into a want — a misery keen : 

Was horn, was grown, and wounded sorely cried 

All 'tvvixt the midnight and the morning tide. 

He was a brave man, and he took this thing 

And cast it from him with a man's strong hand; 

And that next morn, with no sweet altering 
Of mien, beside the maid he took his stand* 

And copied his past self till ebbing day 

Paled ; ts deep western blush, and died away. 

And then he told her that he must depart 
Upon the morrow, with tin 1 earliest light; 

And it displeased and pained her at the heart. 
And she went out to hide her from his sight 

Ameath the cedar trees, where dusk was deep, 

And be apart from him awhile to weep 

And to lament, till, suddenly aware 

Of steps, she started up as fain to flee, 
And met him in the moonlight pacing there, 



502 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 



Who questioned with her why her tears might be, 
Till she did answer him, all red for shame, 
" Kind sir, I weep — the wanting of a name." 

u A name ! " quoth he, and sighed. " I never knew 
Thy father's name ; but many a stalwart youth 

Would give thee his, dear child, and his love too, 
And count himself a happy man forsooth. 

Is there none here who thy kind thought hath won?" 

lint she did falter, and made answer, wi None." 

Then, as in father-like and kindly mood, 

He said, " Dear daughter, it would please me well 

To see thee wed ; for know it is not good 

That a fair woman thus alone should dwell " 

She said, " I am content it should be so, 

If when you journey I may with you go." 

This when he heard, he thought, right sick at heart 
Must I withstand myself, and also thee? 

Thou, also thou ! must nobly do thy part ; 

That honor leads thee on which holds back me. 

No, thou sweet woman ; by love's great increase, 

I will reject thee for thy truer peace. 

Then said he, "Lady ! — look upon my face ; 

Consider well this scar upon my brow; 
I have had all misfortune but disgrace; 

I do not look for marriage blessings now. 
Be not thy gratitude deceived. I know 
Thou think'st it is thy duty — I will go ! 

' k I read thy meaning, and I go from hence, 

Skilled in the reason ; though my heart be rude, 

I will not wrong thy gentle innocence, 
Nor take advantage of thy gratitude, 

But think, while yet the light these eyes shall bless, 

The more for thee — of woman's nobleness." 



MARGARET hV THE XEBEC, 503 

Faultless and fair, all in the moony light, 

As one ashamed, she looked upon the ground, 

And her white raiment glistened in his sight. 
And hark ! the vesper chimes began to sound, 

Then lower yet she drooped her young, pure cheek, 

And still was she ashamed, and could not speak. 

A swarm of bells from that old tower o'erhead, 
They sent their message sifting through the bough 

Of cedars ; when they ceased his lady said, 
; - Tray you forgive me," and her lovely brows 

She lifted, standing in her moonlit place, 

And one short moment looked him in the face. 

Then straight he cried, "O sweetheart, think all one 
As no word yet were said between us twain, 

And know thou that in this I yield to none — 
I love thee, Bweetheart, love- thee ! " so full fain, 

While she did leave to silence all her part, 

He took the gleaming whiteness to his heart — 

The white-robed maiden with the warm white throat, 
The sweet white brow, and locks of limber How, 

Whose murmuring voice was soft as rock-dove's note, 
Entreating him, and saying, * w Do not go!" 

" I will not, sweetheart; nay, not now," quoth he, 

" By faith and troth, I think thou art for me ! " 

And so she won a name that eventide, 

Which he gave gladly, but would ne'er bespeak, 

And she became the rough sea-captain's bride, 
Matching her dimples to his sunburnt cheek ; 

And chasing from his voice the touch of care, 

That made her weep when first she heard it there. 

One year there was, fulfilled of happiness, 

But O ! it went so fast, too fast away. 
Then came that trouble which full oft doth bless — 



504 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

It was the evening of a sultry day, 
There was no wind the thread-hung flowers to stir. 
Or float abroad the filmy gossamer. 

Toward the trees his steps the mariner bent, 
Pacing the grassy walks with restless feet : 

And he recalled, and pondered as he went, 
All her most duteous love and conve±-se sweet, 

Till summer darkness settled deep and dim, 

And dew from bending leaves dropt down on him. 

The flowers sent forth their nightly odors faint — 
Thick leaves shut out the starlight overhead ; 

While he told over, as b}^ strong constraint 
Drawn on, her childish life on shipboard led, 

And beauteous youth, since first low kneeling there, 

With folded hands she lisped her evening prayer. 

Then he remembered how, beneath the shade, 
She wooed him to her with her lovely words, 

While flowers were closing, leaves in moonlight 
played. 
And in dark nooks withdrew the silent birds. 

So pondered he that night in twilight dim, 

While dew from bending leaves dropt down on him. 

The flowers sent forth their nightly odors faint — 
When, in the darkness waiting, he saw one 

To whom he said — " How fareth my sweet saint? " 
Who answered — "She hath borne to you a son ; " 

Then, turning, left him, — and the father said, 

" God rain down blessings on his welcome head ! " 

But, Margaret! — she never saw the child, 

Nor heard about her bed love's mournful wails ; 

But to the last, with ocean dreams beguiled, 

Murmured of troubled seas and swelling sails — 

Of weary voyages, and rocks unseen, 

And distant hills in sight, all calm and green. . . , 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 



505 



Woe and alas ! — the times of sorrow come, 
And make us doubt if we were ever glad ! 
So utterly that inner voice is dumb, 

Whose music through our happy days we had ! 
So, at the touch of grief, without our will, 
The sweet voice drops from us, and all is still. 

Woe and alas ! for the sea-captain's wife 

That Margaret who in the Xebec played — 
She spent upon his knee her baby life ; 

Her slumbering head upon his breast she laid. 
How shall he learn alone his years to pass? 
How in the empty house? — woe and alas ! 
She died, and in the aisle, the minster aisle, 

They made her grave : and there, with fond incent, 
Her husband raised, his sorrow to beguile, 

A very fair and stately monument: 
Her tomb (the careless vergers show it yet), 
The mariner's wile, his love, his Margaret. 
A woman's figure, with the eyelids closed, 

The quiet head declined in slumber sweet; 
Upon an anchor one fair hand reposed, 
And a long ensign folded at her feet, 
And carved upon the bordering of her vest 
The motto of her house — " |jc gibrtlj Jlcst." 
There is an ancient window richly fraught 

And fretted with all hues most rich, most bright, 
And in its upper tracery enwrought 

An olive-branch and dove wide-winged and white, 
An emblem meet for her, the tender dove, 
Her heavenly peace, her duteous earthly love. 
Amid heraldic shields and banners set, 

In twisted knots and wildly-tangled bands, 
Crimson and green, and gold and violet, 

Fall softly on the snowy sculptured hands ; 
And, when the suushine comes, full sweetly rest 
The dove and olive-branch upon her breast. 



506 THE SHEPHERD LADY. 

POEMS FROM "MOPS A THE FAIRY." 
THE SHEPHERD LADY. 



Who pipes upon the long green hill, 
Where meadow grass is deep? 

The white lamb bleats but followeth on — 
Follow the clean white sheep. 

The dear white lady in yon high tower, 
She hearkeneth in her sleep. 

All in long grass the piper stands, 

Goodly and grave is he ; 
Outside the tower, at dawn of day, 

The notes of his pipe ring free. 
A thought from his heart doth reach to hen 

kt Come down, O lady ! to me." 

She lifts her head, she dons her gown : 

Ah ! the lady is fair ; 
She ties the girdle on her waist, 

And binds her flaxen hair, 
And down she stealeth, down and down, 

Down the turret stair. 

Behold him ! With the flock he wons 

Along yon grassy lea. 
"My shepherd lord, my shepherd love, 

What wilt thou, then, with me? 
My heart is gone out of my breast, 

And followeth on to thee." 



" The white lambs feed in tender grass : 

With them and thee to bide, 
How good it were," she saith at noon ; 



ABOVE THE CLOUDS. 5 o 7 

" Albeit the meads are wide. 
Oh ! well is me,'-' she saith when day 
Draws on to eventide. 

Hark ! hark ! the shepherd's voice. Oh, sweet! 

Her tears drop down like rain. 
" Take now this crook, my chosen, my fere, 

And tend the flock full fain ; 
Feed them, O lady, and lose not one, 

Till I shall come again." 

Right soft her speech : " My will is ihine, 

And my reward thy grace ! " 
Gone are his footsteps over the hill, 

Withdrawn his goodly face ; 
The mournful dusk begins to gather, 

The daylight wanes apace. 

in. 
On sunny slopes* ah ! long the lady 

Feedeth her flock at noon ; 
She leads it down to drink at eve 

Where the small rivulets croon. 
All night her locks are wet with dew 

Her eyes outwatch the moon. 

Beyond the hills her voice is heard, 

She sings when life doth wane : 
" My longing heart is full of love, 

Nor shall my watch be vain. 
My shepherd lord, I see him not, 

But he will come again." 



ABOVE THE CLOUDS. 

And can this be my own world? 

'Tis all gold and snow, 
Save where the scarlet waves are hurled 



ro8 FAILURE. 



Down }"on gulf below. 
'Tis thy world, 'tis my world, 

City, mead, and shore, 
For he that hath his own world 

Hath many worlds more. 



LOVE'S THREAD OF GOLD. 
In the night she told a story, 

In the night and all night through, 
While the moon was in her glory, 

And the branches dropped with dew. 
'Twas my life she told, and round it 

Rose the years as from a deep ; 
In the world's great heart she found it, 

Cradled like a child asleep. 
In the night I saw her weaving 

By the misty moonbeam cold, 
All the weft her shuttle cleaving 

With a sacred thread of gold. 
Ah ! she wept me tears of sorrow, 

Lulling tears so mystic sweet ; 
Then she wove my last to-morrow, 

And her web la} T at my feet. 
Of my life she made the story : 

I must weep — so soon 'twas told ! 
But your name did lend it glory, 

And your love its thread of gold ! 



FAILURE. 
We are much bound to them that do succeed ; 
But, in a more pathetic sense, are bound 
To such as fail. They all our loss expound ; 

They comfort us for work that will not speed, 

And life — itself a failure. 



GIVE US LOVE AND GIVE US PEACE. 509 

Ay, his deed, 
Sweetest in story, who the dusk profound 
Of Hades flooded with entrancing sound, 
Music's own tears, was failure. Doth it read 
Therefore the worse? Ah, no! so much to dare, 

He fronts the regnant Darkness on its throne. — » 
So much to do ; impetuous even there, 

He pours out love's disconsolate sweet moan — 
He wins ; but few for that his deed recall : 
Its power is in the look which costs him all. 



GIVE US LOVE AND GIVE US PEACE. 

One morning, oh ! so early, my beloved, my beloved, 
All the birds were singing blithely, as if never they 

would cease ; 
'Twas a thrush sang in my garden, " Hear the story, 
hear the story ! " 

And the lark sang, " Give us glory ! " 
And the dove said, kW Give us peace ! " 
Then I listened, oh! so early, my beloved, my be- 
loved, 
To that murmur from the woodland of the dove, my 

dear, the dove ; 
When the nightingale came after, " Give us fame to 
sweeten duty ! " 

When the wren sang, " Give us beauty ! " 
She made answer, k> Give us love ! " 

Sweet is spring, and sweet the morning, my beloved, 

my beloved ; [the year's increase, 

Now for us doth spring, doth morning, wait upon 

And my prayer goes up, u Oh, give us, crowned in 

youth with marriage glory, 

Give for all our life's dear story, 
Give us love, and give us peace 1" 



5 to THE DAYS WITHOUT ALLOY. 



THE DAYS WITHOUT ALLOY. 

When I sit on market-days amid the comers and 
the goers, 
Oh ! full oft I have a vision of the days without 
alloy. 
And a ship comes up the river with a jolly gang of 
towel's, 
And a " pull'e haid'e, pull'e haul'e, }'oy ! heave, 
hoy ! " 

There is busy talk around me, all about mine ears it 
hummeth, 
But the wooden wharves I look on, and a dancing, 
heaving buoy, 
For 'tis tidetime in the river, and she cometh — oh, 
she cometh ! 
With a " pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, voy ! heave, 
hoy ! " 

Then I hear the water washing, never golden waves 
were brighter, 
And I hear the capstan creaking — 'tis a sound 
that cannot cloy. 
Bring her to, to ship her lading, brig or schooner, 
sloop or lighter, 
With a kt pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy ! heave, 
hoy ! " 

" Will ve step aboard, my dearest? for the high seas 
lie before us." 
So I sailed adown the river in those days with- 
out alloy ; 
We are launched ! But when, I wonder, shall a 
sweeter sound float o'er us 
Than yon "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! 
heave, hoy ! " 



ON THE ROCKS BY ABERDEEN. qTT 



THE LEAVES OF LIGX ALOES. 

Drop, drop from the leaves of lign aloes, 
honey-dew ! drop irom the tree. 

Float up though your clear river shallows, 
White lilies, beloved of the bee. 

Let the people, O Queen ! say, and bless thee, 
Her bounty drops soft as the dew, 

And spotless in honor confess thee, 
As lilies are spotless in hue. 

On the roof stands yon white stork awaking, 
His feathers flush rosy the while, 

For, lo! from the blushing east breaking, 
The sun sheds the bloom of his smile. 

Let them boast of thy word, " It is certain ; 

We doubt it no more," let them say, 
" Than to-morrow that night's dusky curtain 

Shall roll back its folds for the day." 



OX THE ROCKS r>Y ABERDEEN. 

On the rocks by Aberdeen, 
Where the whislin' wave had been 
As I wandered and at e'en 

Was eerie ; 

There I saw thee sailing west, 

And I ran with joy opprest — 

Ay, and took out all my best, 

My dearie. 

Then I busked mysel' wi' speed, 
And the neighbors cried "What need? 
'Tis a lass in any weed 
Aye bonny ! 



512 FEATHERS AND MOSS. 

Now my heart, my heart is sair : 
What's the good, though I be fair, 
For thou' It never see me mair, 
Man Johnnie ! 



FEATHERS AND MOSS. 

The marten flew to the finch's nest, 

Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay : 

"The arrow it sped to thy brown mate's breast ; 
Low in the broom is thy mate to-day." 

" Liest thou low, love? low in the broom? 

Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay, 
Warm the white eggs till I learn his doom." 

She beateth her wings, and away, away. 

" Ah, my sweet singer, thy days are told 
(Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay) ! 

Thine eyes are dim, and the eggs grow coldr 
O mournful morrow ! O dark to-day ! " 

The finch flew back to her cold, cold nest, 
Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay, 

Mine is the trouble that rent her breast, 
And home is silent, and love is clay. 



Sweet is childhood — childhood's over, 

Kiss and part. 
Sweet is youth ; but youth's a rover — 

So's my heart. 
Sweet is rest ; but by all showing 

Toil is nigh. 
We must go. Alas ! the going, 

Say " good-bye." 



A WOOING SONG. 513 

THE GYPSY'S SELLING SOXG. 
My good man — he's an old, old man> 

And my good man got a fall, 
To buy me a bargain so fast he ran 
When he heard the gypsies call : 
" Buy, buy brushes, 
Baskets wrought o' rushes. 
Buy them, buy them, take them, try them, 
Buy, dames all." 
My old man, he has money and land, 

And a young, young wife am I. 
Let him put the penny in my white hand 
When he hears the gypsies cry : 
"Bu\-, buy laces, 
Veils to screen your faces. 
Buy them, buy them, take and try them. 
Buy, maids, buy." 



A WOOING SOXG. 
My fair lady's a dear, dear lady — 

I walked by her side to woo. 
In a garden alley, so sweet and shady, 
She answered, wi 1 love not you, 
John, John Brady," 
Quoth my dear lady, 
" Pray now, pray now, go your way now, 
Do, John, do." 

Yet my fair lady's my own, own lady, 

For I passed another day ; 
While making her moan, she sat all alone, 
And thus, and thus did she say: 
" John, John Brady," 
Quoth my dear lady, 
" Do now, do now, once more woo now, 
Pray, John, urav I " 



514 MASTER, QUOTH THE AULD HOUND. 

SLEEP AND TIME. 

" Wake, baillie, wake ! the crafts are out ; 

Wake ! " said the knight, " be quick ! 
For high street, bye street, over the town 

They fight with poker and stick." 
Said the squire, " A fight so fell was ne'er 

In all thy bailliewick." 
What said the old clock in the tower? 
" Tick, tick, tick! " 

" Wake, daughter, wake ! the hour draws on ; 

Wake," quoth the dame, "be quick ! 
The meats are set, the guests are coming, 

The fiddler waxing his stick." 
She said, " The bridegroom waiting and waiting 

To see thy face is sick-" 
What said the new clock in her bower? 
"Tick, tick, tick!" 



MASTER, QUOTH THE AULD HOUND. 

"Master," quoth the auld hound, 

"Where will ye go?" 
** Over moss, over muir, 

To court my new jo." 
" Master, though the night be merk, 

I'se follow through the snow. 

" Court her, master, court her, 

So shall ye do weel ; 
But and ben she'll guide the house, 

I'se get milk and meal, 
Ye'se get lilting while she sits 

With her rock and reel." 



AT ONE AGAIN. 515 

" For oh ! she has a sweet tongue, 

And een that look down, 
A gold girdle for her waist, 

And a purple gown. 
She has a good word forbye 

Fra a' folk in the town." 



LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT. 

It's we two, it's we two, it's we two for aye, 

All the world and we too, and Heaven be our stay. 

Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride! 

All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side, 

What's the world, my lass, my love ! — what can it do? 
1 am thine, and thou art mine ; life is sweet and new. 
If the world have missed the mark, let it stand by, 
For we two have gotten leave, and once more we'll try. 

Take a laverock in the lift, sing, bonny bride! 
It's we two, it's we two, happy side by side. 

Take a kiss from me thy mac ; now the song begins • 
• fc All is made afresh for us, and the brave heart wins." 

When the darker days eome, and no sun will shine, 
Tlion shall dry my tears, hiss, and I'll dry thine. 
It's we two, it's we two, while the world's away, 
Sitting by the golden sheaves on our wedding day. 



BEES AND OTHER FELLOW-CHEATUI^S. 

The dove laid some little sticks, 

Then began to coo ; 
The gnat took his trumpet up 

To play the day through; 



516 LITTLE BABE. 



The pie chattered soft and long 
But that she always does ; 

The bee did all he had to do, 
And only said, "Buzz." 



LITTLE BABE. 

Little babe, while burns the west, 
Warm thee, warm thee in my breast; 
While the moon doth shine her best, 
And the dews distil not. 



All the land so sad, so fair — 
Sweet its toils are, blest its care. 
Child, we may not enter there! 
Some there are that will not. 



Fain would I thy margins know, 
Land of work, and land of snow; 
Land of life, whose rivers flow 
On, and on, and stay not. 

Fain would I thy small limbs fold, 
While the weary hours are told, 
Little babe in cradle cold. 
Some there are that may not. 



THE PRINCE SHALL TO THE CHASE 517 



A LAND THAT LIVING WARMTH 
DISOWNS. 

A land that living warmth disowns, 
It meets 1113- wondering ken ; 

A land where all the men are stones, 
Or all the stones are men. 



THE PEINCE SHALL TO THE CHASE 
AGAIN. 

The prince shall to the chase again, 
The dame has got her face again, 
The king shall have his place again 
Aneath the fairy dome. 

And all the knights shall woo again, 
And all the doves shall coo again, 
And all the dreams come true again, 
And Jack shall go home. 



518 AT ONE AGAIN. 



AT ONE AGAIN. 

I. NOONDAY. 

Two angry men — in heat they sever, 
And one goes home by a harvest held : — 

"Hope's naught,'' quoth he, "and vain endeavor; 
I said and say it, I will not yield ! 

"As for this wrong, no art can mend it, 
The bond is shiver'd that held us twain; 

Old friends we be, but law must end it, 
Whether for loss or whether for gain. 



"Yon stream is small — full slow its wending; 

But winning is sweet, but right is fine; 
And shoal of trout, oc willowy bending — 

Though Law be costly — I'll prove them mine. 



" His strawberry cow slipped loose her tether, 
And trod the best of my barley down ; 

His little lasses at play together 

Pluck'd the poppies my boys had grown. 



"What then — Why naught! She lack'd of reason; 

And they — my little ones match them well : — 
But this — Nay all things have their season, 

And 'tis my reason to curb and quell." 



AT ONE AGAIN. 519 



II. • SUNSET. 



So saith he, when noontide fervors flout him, 
So thinks, when the West is amber and red, 

When he smells the hop-vines sweet about him, 
And the clouds are rosy overhead. 

While slender and tall the hop-poles going 
Straight to the West in their leafy lines, 

Portion it out into chambers, glowing, 
And bask in red day as fche sun declines. 

Between fche leaves in his latticed arbor 
He sees the sky, as they flutter and turn, 

While moor'd Like boats in a golden harbor 
The fleets of leathery cloudlets burn. 

Withdrawn in shadow, he thinketh over 

Harsh thoughts, fche fruit-laden trees among, 

Till pheasants call their young to cover, 
And cushats coo them a nursery song. 

A nd flocks of ducks forsake their sedges, 
Wending home to the wide barn-door, 

And loaded wains between the hedges 
Slowly creep to his threshing floor — 

Slowly creep. And his tired senses 

Float him over the magic stream, 
To a world where Fancy recompenses 

Vengeful thoughts, with a troubled dream! 



5 20 AT ONE AGAIN. 



III. THE DREAM. 

What's this? a wood? — What's that? one calleth, 
Calleth and cryeth in mortal dread — 

He hears men strive — then somewhat falleth ! — 
"Help me, neighbor — I'm hard bestead." 

The dream is strong — the voice he knoweth — 
But when he would run, his feet are fast, 

And death lies beyond, and no man goeth 
To help, and he says the time is past. 

His feet are held, and he shakes all over, — 

Nay — they are free — he lias found the place — 

Green boughs are gather 'd — what is't they cover? — 
"I pray you, look on the dead man's face; 

"You that stand by," he saith, and cowers — 

"Man, or Angel, to guard the d^wil 
With shadowy spear, and a brow that lowers, 

And wing-points reared in the gloom o'erhead. — 

" I dare not look. He wronged me never. 

Men say we differ'd ; they speak amiss : 
This man and I were neighbors ever — 

I would have ventured my life for his. 

" But fast my feet were — fast with tangles — 
Aye ! words — but they were not sharp, I trow, 

Though parish feuds and vestry wrangles — 
pitiful sight — I see thee now! — 



AT ONE AGAIN. 521 

"If we fell out, 'twas but foul weather, 
After long shining! bitter cup, — 

What — dead? — why, man, we play'd together — 
Art dead — ere a friend can make it up? " 



IV. THE WAKIXG. 

Over his head the chafer hummeth, 
Under his feet shut daisies bend: 

Waken, man ! the enemy cometh, 

Thy neighbor, counted so long a friend. 

He cannot waken — and firm, and steady, 
The enemy comes with lowering brow; 

He looks for war, his heart is ready, 

His thoughts are bitter — he will not bow. 

He fronts the seat, — the dream is flinging 
A spell that his footsteps may not break,— 

l'.ni one in the garden of hops is singing — 
The dreamer hears it, and starts awake. 



v. A SONG. 

Walking apart, she thinks none listen; 

And now she carols, and no\\ r she stops; 
And the evening star begins to glisten 

At ween the lines of blossoming hops. 

Sweetest Mercy, your mother taught you 
All uses and cares that to maids belong; 

Apt scholar to read and to sew she thought you 
She did not teach you that tender song — 



5 22 AT ONE AGAIN. 



u The lady sang in her charmed bower, 
Sheltered and safe under roses blown — 

'Storm cannot touch me, hail, nor shower, 
Where all alone I sit, all alone. 

" 'My bower ! The fair Fay twined it round me; 

Care nor trouble can pierce it through; 
But once a sigh from the warm tvorld found me 

Between two leaves that ivere bent with dew. 

" 'And day to night, and night to morrow, 
Though soft as slumber the long hours wore, 

I look for my dower of lore, of sorrow — 
Is there no more — no more — no more ? ' 

" Give her the sun-sweet light, and duly 
To walk in shadow, nor chide her part ; 

Give her the rose, and truty, truly — 
To wear its thorn with a patient heart — 

" Misty as dreams the moonbeam lyeth 
Chequered and faint on her charmed floor ; 

The lady siugeth, the lady sigheth — 

' 7s there no more — no more — no more?' " 



VI. LOVERS. 

A crash of boughs! — one through them breaking! 

Mercy is startled, and fain would fly, 
But e'en as she turns, her steps o'ertaking, 

He pleads with her — " Mercy, it is but I ! 

" Mercy ! " he touches her hand unbidden — 
" The air is balmy, I pray you stay — 



AT ONE AGAIN. 523 

Mercy?" Her downcast eyes are hidden, 
And never a word she has to say. 

Till closer drawn, her prison'd ringers 

1 !«' takes to his lips with a yearning strong; 

And she murmurs low, that late she lingers, 
Her mother will want her, and think her long. 

" Good mother is she, then honor duly 
The lightest wish in her heart that stirs, 

But there is a bond }^et dearer truly, 
And there is a love that passeth hers. 

" Mercy, Mercy !" Her heart attendeth, — 
Love's birthday blush on her brow lies sweet; 

She turns her face when his own he U'tideth, 
And the lips of the youth and the maiden meet. 



VII. FATHERS. 

Move through the bowering hops, lovers, — 
Wander down to the golden West, — 

But two stand mute in the shade that covers 
Your love and youth from their souls opprest. 

A little shame on their spirits stealing, — 
A little pride that, is loth to sue, — 

A Little struggle with soften'd feeling, — 
And a world of fatherly care for you. 

One says: "To this same running water, 
May be, Neighbor, your claim is best." 

And one — " Your son has kissed niy daughter, 
Let the matters between us — rest." 



5 2 4 ROSAMUND. 



ROSAMUND. 

He blew with His winds, and they were scattered. 

" One soweth and another reapeth." Ay, 
Too true, too true. One soweth — unaware 
Cometh a reaper stealthily while he dreams, 
Bindeth the golden sheaf, and in his bosom 
As 'twere between the dewfall and the dawn 
Bears it away. Who other was to blame? 
Is it I? Is it I? — No verily, not I, 
'Twas a good action, and I smart therefore; 
Oblivion of a righteous enmity 
Wrought me this wrong. I pay with my self- 
ruth 
That I had ruth toward mine enemy; 
It needed not to slay mine enemy, 
Only to let him lie and succorless 
Drift to the foot o' the Everlasting Throne; 
Being mine enemy, he had not accused 
One of my nation there of unkind deeds 
Or aught the way of war forbids. 

Let be! 
I will not think upon it. Yet she was — 
0, she was dear; my dutiful, dear child. 
One soweth — Nay, but I will tell this out, 
The first fytte was the best, I call it such 
Tor now as some old song men think on it. 

I dwell where England narrows running north; 
And while our hay was cut came rumors up 
Humming and swarming round our heads like 
bees: 



KOSAMCWD. 525 



" Drake from the bay of Cadiz hath come home, 
And they are forth, the Spaniards with a force 
Invincible." 

" The Prince of Parma, couched 
At Dunkirk, e'en by torchlight makes to toil 
1 1 is shipwright thousands — thousands in the ports 
Of Flanders and Brabant. An hundred hendes 
Transports to his great squadron adding, all 
For our confusion." 

"England's great ally 
Henry of Franco, by insurrection fallen, 
Of him the said Prince Parma mocking cries, 
He shall not help the Queen of England now 
Not even with his bears, more needing them 
To weep his own misfortune.' 5 

Was that all 
The truth? Not half, and yet it was enough 
(Albeit not half thai half was well believed), 
For all the land stirred in the half belief 
As dreamers stir about to wake; and now 
Conies the Queen's message, all her lieges bid 
To rise, " lieftenants, and the better sort 
Of gentlemen " whereby the Queen's grace meant, 
As it may seem the sort that willed to rise 
And arm, and come to aid her. 

Distance wrought 
Safety for us, my neighbors and near friends, 
The peril Lay along our channel const 
And marked the city, undefended fair 
Rich London. to think of Spanish mail 
Kinging — of riotous conquerors in her street, 
Chasing and frighting (would there were no more 
To think on) he* fair wives and her {'air maids 
— But hope is fain to deem them forth of her. 



52 6 ROSAMUND. 



Then Spain to the sacking; then they tear away 
Arras and carved work. then they break 
And toss, and mar her quaint orfeverie 
Priceless — then split the wine kegs, spill the 

mead, 
Trail out the pride of ages in the dust; 
Turn over with pikes her silken merchandise, 
Strip off the pictures of her kings, and spoil 
Their palaces that nigh five hundred years 
Have rued no alien footsteps on the floor, 
And work — for the days of miracle are gone — 
All unimaginable waste and woe. 

Some cried, "But England hath the better cause; 

We think not those good days indeed are done; 

We look to Heaven for aid on England's side." 

Then other, " Nay, the harvest is above, 

God comforts there His own, and ill men leaves 

To run long scores up in this present world, 

And pay in another. 

Look not here for aid. 

Latimer, poor old saint, died in the street 

With nigh, men say, three hundred of his kind, 

All bid to look for worse death after death, 

Succorless, comfortless, unfriended, curst. 

Mary, and Gardiner, and the Pope's man Pole 

Died upon down, lulled in a silken shade, 

Soothed with assurance of a waiting heaven, 

And Peter peering through the golden gate, 

With his gold key in 's hand to let them in." 

"Nay, leave," quoth I, "the martyrs to their 

heaven, 
And all who live the better that they died. 



ROSAMUND. 527 



But look you now, a nation hath no heaven, 

A nation's life and work and wickedness 

And punishment — or otherwise, I say 

A nation's life and goodness and reward 

Are here. And in my nation's righteous cause 

T look for aid, and cry, So help me God 

As I will help my righteous nation now 

With all the best I have, and know, and am, 

I trust Thou wilt not let her light be quenched ; 

I go to aid, and if I fall — I fall, 

And, God of nations, leave my soul to Thee." 

Many did say like words, and all would give 
Of gold, of weapons, and of horses that 
They had to hand or on the spur o' the time 
Could gather. My lair dame did sell her rings, 
So others. And they sent us well equipped 
AY ho minded to be in the coming fray 
Whether by land or sea; my hope the last. 
For I of old therewith was conversant. 

Then as we rode down southward all the land 
Was at her harvesting. The oats were cut 
Ere we were three days down, and then the wheat, 
And the wide country spite of loathed threat 
Was busy. There was news to hearten us: 
The Hollanders were coming roundly in 
With sixty ships of war, all fierce, and full 
Of spleen, for not alone our sake but theirs 
Willing to brave encounter where they might. 

So after five days we did sight the Sound, 
And look on Plymouth harbor from the hill. 
Then I full glad drew bridle, lighted straight, 
Kan down and mingled with a waiting crowd. 



528 ROSAMUND. 



Many stood gazing on the level deep 

That scarce did tremble; 'twas in hue as sloes 

That hang till winter on a leafless bough, 

So black bulged down upon it a great cloud 

And probed it through and through with forked stabs 

Incessant, and rolled on it thunder bursts 

Till the dark water lowered as one afraid. 

That was afar. The land and nearer sea 

Lay sweltering in hot sunshine. The brown beach 

Scarce whispered, for a soft incoming tide 

Was gentle with it. Green the water lapped 

And sparkled at all edges. The night-heavens 

Are not more thickly speckled o'er with stars 

Than that fair harbor with its fishing craft. 

And crowds of galleys shooting to and fro 

Did feed the ships of war with their stout crews, 

And bear aboard fresh water, furniture 

Of war, much lesser victual, sallets, fruit, 

All manner equipment for the squadron, sails, 

Long spars. 

Also was chaffering on the Hoe, 
Buying and bargaining, taking of leave 
With, tears and kisses, while on all hands pushed 
Tall lusty men with baskets on their heads 
Piled of fresh bread, and biscuit newly drawn. 

Then shouts, " The captains ! " 

lialeigh, Hawkins, Drake, 
Old Martin Frobisher, and many more ; 
Howard, the Lord High Admiral, headed them — 
They coming leisurely from the bowling green, 
Elbowed their way. For in their stoutness loth 
To hurry when ill news first brake on them, 



ROSAMUND. 529 



They playing a match ashore — ill news I say, 
"The Spaniards are toward" — while panic-struck 
The people ran about them, Drake cries out, 
Knowing their fear should make the danger worse, 
"Spaniards, my masters! Let the Spaniards wait. 
Fall not a-shouting for the boats ; is time 
To play the match out, ay to win, and then 
To beat the Spaniards." 

So the rest gave way 
At his insistence, playing that afternoon 
The bravest match (one saith) was ever scored. 



'Twas no time lost; nay, not a moment lost; 
For look yon, when the winning cast was made, 
The town was calm, the anchors were all up. 
The boats were manned to row them each to his 

ship, 
The lowering clond in the offing had gone south 
Against the wind, and all was work, stir, heed, 
Nothing forgot, nor grudged, nor slurred, and most 
Men easy at heart as those brave sailors seemed. 

And specially the women had put by 

On a sudden their deep dread; yon Cornish coast 

Neared of his insolency by the foe, 

With his high seacastles numerous, seaforts 

Many, his galleys out of number, manned 

Each by three hundred slaves chained to the oar; 

All his strong fleet of lesser ships, but great 

As any of ours — why that same Cornish coast 

Might have lain farther than the far west land, 

So had a few stout-hearted looks and word 

Wasted the meaning, chilled the menace of 

That frightful danger, imminent, hard at hand. 



530 ROSAMUND. 



" The captains come, the captains ! " and I turned 
As they drew on. I marked the urgency 
Plashing in each man's eye: fain to be forth 
But willing to be held at leisure. Then 
Cried a fair woman of the better sort 
To Howard, passing by her pannier' d ass, 
" Apples, Lord Admiral, good captains all, 
Look you, red apples sharp and sweet are these." 

Quoth he a little chafed, " Let be, let be, 

No time is this for bargaining, good dame. 

Let ba ; " and pushing past, " Beshrew thy heart 

(And mine that I should say it), bargain! nay. 

I meant not bargaining," she falters; crying, 

" I brought them my poor gift. Pray you now take, 

Pray you." 

He stops, and with a childlike smile 
That makes the dame amend, stoops down to 

choose, 
While I step up that love not many words, 
"What should he do," quoth I, "to help this need 
That hath a bag of money, and good will? " 
"Charter a ship," he saith, nor e'er looks up, 
" And put aboard her victual, tackle, shot, 
Aught he can lay his hand on — look he give 
Wide sea room to the Spanish hounds, make sail 
Por ships of ours, to ease of wounded men, 
And succor with that freight he brings withal." 

His foot, yet speaking, was aboard his boat, 
His comrades, each red apples in the hand, 
Come after, and with blessings manifold 
Cheering, and cries, " Good luck, good luck! " they 
speed. 



ROSAMUND. 531 



'Twas three years three months past. 

yet me thinks 
I hear that thunder crash i' the offing; hear 
Their words who when the crowd melted away 
Gathered together. Comrades we of old, 
Abont to adventure us at Howard's hest 
On the unsafe sea. For he, a Catholic, 
As is my wife, and therefore my one child, 
Detested and defied th' most Catholic King 
Philip. He, trusted of her grace — and cause 
She had, the nation following suit — he deemed, 
'Twas whisper'd, ay and Raleigh, and Francis 

Drake 
No less, the event of battle doubtfuller 
Than English tongue might own; the peril dread 
As aught in this world ever can be deemed 
That is not yet past praying for. 

So far 
So good. As birds awaked do stretch their wings 
The ships did stretch forth sail, full clad they 

towered 
And right into the sunset went, hull down 
E'en with the sun. 

To us in twilight left, 
Glory being over, came despondent thought 
That mocked men's eager act. From many a hill, 
As if the land complained to Heaven, they sent 
A towering shaft of murky incense high, 
Livid with black despair in lieu of praise. 
The green wood hissed at every beacon's edge 
That widen'd fear. The smell of pitchpots fled 
Far over the field, and tongues of fire leaped up, 
Ay, till all England woke, and knew, and wailed. 



532 ROSAMUND. 



But we i' the night through that detested reek 
Rode eastward. Every mariner's voice was given 
'Gainst any fear for the western shires. The cry 
Was all, " They sail for Calais Roads, and thence, 
The goal is London." 

Naught slept, man nor beast. 
Ravens and rooks flew forth, and with black wings, 
Affrighted, swept our eyes. Pale eddying moths 
Came by in crowds and whirled them on the flames. 

We rode till pierced those beacon fires the shafts 
0' the sun, and their red smouldering ashes dulled. 
Beside them, scorched, smoke-blackened, weary, 

leaned 
Men that had fed them, dropped their tired arms 
And dozed. 

And also through that day we rode, 
Till reapers at their nooning sat awhile 
On the shady side of corn-shocks : all the talk 
Of high, of low, or them that went or stayed 
Determined but unhopeful; desperate 
To strike a blow for England ere she fell. 

And ever loomed the Spaniard to our thought, 

Still waxed the fame of that great Armament — 

New horsemen joining, swelled it more and more — 

Their bulky ship galleons having five decks, 

Zabraes, pataches, galleys of Portugal, 

Caravels rowed with oars, their galliasses 

Vast, and complete with chapels, chambers, towers. 

And in the said ships of free mariners 

Eight thousand, and of slaves two thousand more, 

An army twenty thousand strong. then 



ROSAMUND. 533 



Of culverin, of double culverin, 
Ordnance and arms, all furniture of war, 
Victual, and last their fierceness and great spleen, 
Willing to founder, burn, split, wreck themselves, 
But they would land, fight, overcome, and reign. 

Then would we count up England. Set by theirs, 

Her fleet as walnut shells. And a few pikes 

Stored in the belfries, and a few brave men 

For wielding them. But as the morning wore, 

And we went ever eastward, ever on, 

Poured forth, poured down, a marching multitude 

With stir about the towns; and wagons rolled 

With offerings for the army and the fleet. 

Then to our hearts valor crept home again, 

The loathed name of Alva fanning it; 

Alva who did convert from our old faith 

With many a black deed done for a white cause 

(So spake they erewhile to it dedicate) 

Them whom not death could change, nor fire, nor 

sword, 
To thirst for his undoing. 

Ay, as I am a Christian man, our thirst 

Was comparable with Queen Mary's. All 

The talk was of confounding heretics, 

The heretics the Spaniards. Yet methought, 

" their great multitude! Not harbor room 

On our long coast for that great multitude. 

They land — for who can let them? — give us 

battle, 
And after give us burial. Who but they, 
For he that liveth shall be flying north 
To bear off wife and child. Our very graves 



534 ROSAMUND. 



Shall Spaniards dig, and in the daisied grass 
Trample them down." 

Ay, whoso will be brave, 
Let him be brave beforehand. After th' event 
If by good pleasure of God it go as then 
He shall be brave an liketh him. I say 
Was no man but that deadly peril feared. 

Nights riding two. Scant rest. Days riding three, 
Then Foulkstone. Need is none to tell all forth 
The gathering stores and men, the charter' d ship 
That I, with two, my friends, got ready for sea. 
Ready she was, so many another, small 
But nimble; and w T e sailing hugged the shore, 
Scarce venturing out, so Drake had willed, a league, 
And running westward aye as best we might, 
When suddenly — behold them ! 

On they rocked, 
Majestical, slow, sailing with the wind. 
O such a sight! O such a sight, mine eyes, 
Never shall you see more ! 

In crescent form, 
A vasty crescent night two leagues across 
From horn to horn, the lesser ships within, 
The great without, they did bestride as 'twere 
And make a township on the narrow seas. 

It was about the point of dawn : and light. 
All gray the sea, and ghostly gray the ships j 
And after in the offing rocked our fleet, 
Having lain quiet in the summer dark. 

then methought, " Flash, blessed gold of dawn, 
And touch the topsails of our Admiral, 



ROSAMUND. 535 



That he may after guide an emulous flock, 
Old England's innocent white bleating lambs. 
Let Spain within a pike's length hear them bleat, 
Delivering of their pretty talk in a tongue 
Whose meaning cries not for interpreter." 

And while I spoke, their topsails, friend and foe, 
Glittered — and there was noise of guns; pale 

smoke 
Lagged after, curdling on the sun-fleck'd main. 
And after that? What after that, my soul? 
Who ever saw weakling white butterflies 
Chasing of gallant swans, and charging them, 
And spitting at them long red streaks of flame? 
We saw the ships of England even so 
As in my vaunting wish that mocked itself 
With " Fool, fool, to brag at the edge of loss." 
We saw the ships of England even so 
Run at the Spaniards on a wind, lay to, 
Bespatter them with hail of battle, then 
Take their prerogative of nimble steerage, 
Fly off, and ere the enemy, heavy in hand, 
Delivered his reply to the wasteful wave 
That made its grave of foam, race out of range, 
Then tack and crowd all sail, and after them 
Again. 

So harass 'd they that mighty foe, 
Moving in all its bravery to the east. 
And some were fine with pictures of the saints, 
Angels with flying hair and peaked wings, 
And high red crosses wrought upon their sails; 
From every mast brave flag or ensign flew, 
And their long silken pennons serpented 



536 ROSAMUND. 



Loose to the morning. And the galley slaves, 
Albeit their chains did clink, sang at the oar. 

The sea was striped e'en like a tiger skin 
With wide ship wakes. 

And many cried, amazed, 
" What means their patience? " 

"Lo you," others said, 
"They pay with fear for their great costliness. 
Some of their costliest needs must other guard; 
Once guarded and in port look to yourselves, 
They count one hundred and fifty. It behoves 
Better they suffer this long running fight — 
Better for them than that they give us battle, 
And so delay the shelter of their roads. 

" Two of their caravels we sank, and one 

(Fouled with her consort in the rigging) took 

Ere she could catch the wind when she rode free. 

And we have riddled many a sail, and split 

Of spars a score or two. What then? To-morrow 

They look to straddle across the strait, and hold — ■ 

Having aye Calais for a shelter — hold 

Our ships in fight. To-morrow shall give account 

For our to-day. They will not we pass north 

To meddle with Parma's flotilla; their hope 

Being Parma, and a convoy they would be 

For his flat boats that bode invasion to us; 

And if he reach to London — ruin, defeat." 

Three fleets the sun went down on, theirs of fame 
Th' Armada. After space old England's few; 
And after that our dancing cockle-shells, 



ROSAMUND. 537 



The volunteers. They took some pride in us, 
For we were nimble, and we brought them powder, 
Shot, weapons. They were short of these. Ill 

found, 
111 found. The bitter fruit of evil thrift. 
But while obsequious, darting hero and there, 
We took their messages from ship to ship, 
From ship to shore, the moving majesties 
Made Calais Roads, cast anchor, all their less 
In the middle ward; their greater ships outside 
Impregnable castles fearing not assault. 

So did we read their thought, and read it wrong, 
While after the running fight we rode at ease, 
For many (as is the way of Englishmen) 
Having made light of our stout deeds, and light 
0' the effects proceeding, saw these spread 
To view. The Spanish Admiral's mighty host, 
Albeit not broken, harass'd. 

Some did tow 
Others that we had plagued, disabled, rent; 
Many full heavily damaged made their berths. 

Then did the English anchor out of range. 

To close was not their wisdom with such foe, 

Rather to chase him, following in the rear. 

Ay, truly they were giants in our eyes 

And in our own. They took scant heed of us, 

And we looked on, and knew not what to think, 

Only that we were lost men, a lost Isle, 

In every Spaniard's mind, both great and small. 

But no such thought had place in Howard's soul, 
And when 'twas dark, and all their sails were 
furled. 



?3 8 ROSAMUND. 



When the wind veered a few points to the west, 
And the tide turned ruffling along the roads, 
He sent eight fireships forging down to them. 

Terrible ! Terrible ! 

Blood-red pillars of reek 
They looked on that vast host and troubled it, 
As on th' Egpytian host One looked of old. 

Then all the heavens were rent with a great cry, 

The red avengers went right on, right on, 

For none could let them; then was ruin, reek, 

flame ; 
Against th' unwieldy huge leviathans 
They drave, they fell upon them as wild beasts, 
And altogether they did plunge and grind, 
Their reefed sails set a-blazing, these flew loose 
And forth like banners of destruction sped. 
It was to look on as the body of hell 
Seething; and some, their cables cut, ran foul 
Of one the other, while the ruddy fire 
Sped on aloft. One ship was stranded. One 
Foundered, and went down burning; all the sea 
Eed as an angry sunset was made fell 
With smoke and blazing spars that rode upright, 
For as the fireships burst they scattered forth 
Full dangerous wreckage. All the sky they scored 
With Hying sails and rocking masts, and yards 
Licked of long flames. And flitting tinder sank 
In eddies on the plagued mixed mob of ships 
That cared no more for harbor, and were fain 
At any hazard to be forth, and leave 
Their berths in the blood -red haze. 



ROSAMUND. 539 



It was at twelve 
0' the clock when this fell out, for as the eight 
Were tolled, and left upon the friendly tide 
To stalk like evil angels over the deep 
And stare upon the Spaniards, we did hear 
Their midnight bells. It was at morning dawn 
After our mariners thus had harried them 
I looked my last upon their fleet, — and all, 
That night had cut their cables, put to sea, 
And scattering wide towards the Flemish coast 
Did seem to make for Greveline. 

As for us, 
The captains told us off to wait on them, 
Bearers of wounded enemies and friends, 
Bearers of messages, bearers of store. 

We saw not aught, but heard enough : we heard 
(And Clod be thanked) of that long scattering chase 
And driving of Sidonia from his hope, 
Parma, who could not aught without his ships 
And looked for them to break the Dutch blockade, 
He meanwhile chafing lion-like in his lair. 
We heard — and he — for all one summer day, 
Penning and Drake and Raynor, Fenton, Cross, 
And more, by Greveline, where they once again 
Did get the wind o' the Spaniards, noise of guns. 
For coming with the wind, wielding themselves 
Which way they listed (while in close array 
The Spaniards stood but on defence), our own 
Went at them, charged them high and charged 

them sore, 
And gave them broadside after broadside. Ay, 
Till all the shot was spent both great and small. 



540 ROSAMUND. 



It failed; and in regard of that same want 
They thought it not convenient to pursue 
Their vessels farther. 

They were huge withal, 
And might not be encounter 'd one to one, 
But close conjoined they fought, and poured great 

store 
Of ordnance at our ships, though many of theirs, 
Shot thorow and thorow, scarce might keep afloat. 

Many were captured fighting, many sank. 

This news they brought returned perforce, and left 

The Spaniards forging north. Themselves did 

watch 
The river mouth, till Howard, his new store 
Gathered, encounter coveting, once more 
Made after them with Drake. 

And lo ! the wind 
Got up to help us. He yet flying north 
(Their doughty Admiral) made all his wake 
To smoke, and would not end to light, but strewed 
The ocean with his wreckage. And the wind 
Drave him before it, and the storm was fell, 
And he went up to th' uncouth northern sea. 

There did our mariners leave him. Then did joy 
Run like a sunbeam over the land, and joy 
Rule in the stout heart of a regnant Queen. 

But now the counsel came, " Every man home, 
For after Scotland rounded, when he curves 
Southward, and all the batter'd armament, 
What hinders on our undefended coast 
To land where'er he listeth? Every man 
Home." 



ROSAMUND. 541 



And we mounted and did open forth. 
Like a great fan, to east, to north, to west, 
And rumor met us flying, filtering 
Down through the border. News of wicked joy, 
The wreckers rich in the Faroes, and the Isles 
Orkney, and all the clansmen full of gear 
Gathered from helpless mariners tempted in 
To their undoing; while a treacherous crew 
Let the storm work upon their lives its will, 
Spoiled them and gathered all their riches up. 
Then did they meet like fate from Irish kernes, 
Who dealt with them according to their wont. 

In a great storm of wind that tore green leaves 
And dashed them wet upon me, came I home. 
Then greeted me my dame, and Rosamund, 
Our one dear child, the heir of these my fields — 
That I should sigh to think it! There, no more. 

Being right weary I betook me straight 

To longed-for sleep, and I did dream and dream 

Through all that dolorous storm ; though noise of 

guns 

Daunted the country in the moonless night, 

Yet sank I deep and deeper in the dream 

And took my fill of rest. 

A voice, a touch, 

"Wake." Lo! my wife beside me, her wet hair 

She wrung with her wet hands, and cried, " A ship! 

I have been down the beach. pitiful! 

A Spanish ship ashore between the rocks, 

And none to guide our people. Wake." 

Then I 

Raised on mine elbow looked; it was high day; 



542 ROSAMUND. 



In the windy pother seas came in like smoke 
That blew among the trees as fine small rain, 
And then the broken water sun-besprent 
Glitter'd, fell back and showed her high and fast 
A caravel, a pinnace that methought 
To some great ship had longed; her hap alone 
Of all that multitude it was to drive 
Between this land of England her right foe, 
And that most cruel, where (for all their faith 
Was one) no drop of water mote they drink 
For love of God nor love of gold. 

I rose 
And hasted; I was soon among the folk, 
But late for work. The crew, spent, faint, and 

bruised, 
Saved for the most part of our men, lay prone 
In grass, and women served them bread and mead, 
Other the sea laid decently along 
Beady for burial. And a litter stood 
In shade. Upon it lying a goodly man, 
The govourner or the captain as it seemed, 
Dead in his stiff gold-broider'd bravery, 
And epaulet and sword. They must have loved 
That man, for many had died to bring him in, 
Their boats stove in were stranded here and there. 
In one — but how I know not — brought they him, 
And he was laid upon a folded flag, 
Many times doubled for his greater ease, 
That was our thought — and we made signs to them 
He should have sepulture. But when they knew 
They must needs leave him, for some marched 

them off 
For more safe custody, they made great moan. 



ROSAMUND. 543 



After, with two my neighbors drawing nigh, 

One of them touched. the Spaniard's hand and said, 

"Dead is he but not cold; " the other then, 

"Nay in good truth methinks he be not dead." 

Again the first, " An if he breatheth yet 

He lies at his last gasp." And this went off, 

And left us two, that by the litter stayed, 

Looking on one another, and we looked 

(For neither willed to speak), and yet looked on. 

Then would he have me know the meet was fixed 

For nine o' the clock, and to be brief with you 

He left me. And I had the Spaniard home. 

What other could be done? I had him home. 

Men on his litter bare him, set him down 

In a fair chamber that was nigh the hall. 

And yet he waked not from his deathly swoon, 
Albeit my wife did try her skill, and now 
Bade lay him on a bed, when lo the folds 
Of that great ensign covered store of gold, 
Rich Spanish ducats, raiment, Moorish blades 
Chased in right goodly wise and missals rare, 
And other gear. I locked it for my part 
Into an armory, and that fair ilag 
(While we did talk full low till he should end) 
Spread over him. Methought, the man shall die 
Under his country's colors; he was brave. 
His deadly wound to that doth testify. 

And when 'twas seemly order'd, Rosamund, 
My daughter, who had looked not yet on death, 
Came in, a face all marvel, pity, and dread — 
Lying against her shoulder sword-long flowers. 



544 ROSAMUND. 



White hollyhocks to cross upon his breast. 
Slowly she turned as of that sight afeard, 
But while with daunted heart she moved anigh, 
His eyelids quiver'd, quiver'd then the lip; 
And he, reviving, with a sob looked up 
And set on her the midnight of his eyes. 

Then she, in act to place the burial gift 
Bending above him, and her flaxen hair 
Fall'n to her hand, drew back and stood upright 
Comely and tall, her innocent fair face 
Cover'd with blushes more of joy than shame. 
"Father," she cried, "0 father, I am glad. 
Look you! the enemy liveth." " 'T is enough, 
My maiden," quoth her mother, "thou may'st forth, 
But say an Ave first for him with me." 

Then they with hands upright at foot o' his bed 
Knelt, his dark dying eyes at gaze on them, 
Till as I think for wonder at them, more 
Than for his proper strength, he could not die. 

So in obedient wise my daughter risen, 
And going, let a smile of comforting cheer 
Lift her sweet lip, and that was all of her 
For many a night and day that he beheld. 

And then withal my dame, a leech of skill, 
Tended the Spaniard fain to heal his wound, 
Her women aiding at their best. And he 
'Twixt life and death awaken 'd in the night 
Full oft in his own tongue would make his moan, 
And when he whisper'd any word I knew, 



ROSAMUND. 545 



If I was present, for to pleasure him, 
Then made I repetition of the same. 
"Cordova," quoth he faintly, "Cordova," 
'Twas the first word he mutter'd. "Ay, we know," 
Quoth I, " the stoutness of that fight ye made 
Against the Moors and their Mahometry, 
And dispossess 'd the men of fame, the fierce 
Khalifa of Cordova — thy home belike, 
Thy city. A fair city Cordova." 

Then after many days, while his wound healed, 
He with abundant seemly sign set forth 
His thanks, but as for language had we none, 
And oft he strove and failed to let us know 
Some wish he had, but could not, so a week, 
Two weeks went by. Then Rosamund my girl, 
Hearing her mother plain on this, she saith, 
"So please you, madam, show the enemy 
A Psalter in our English tongue, and fetch 
And give him that same book my father found 
Wrapped in the ensign. Are they not the same 
Those holy words? The Spaniard being devout, 
He needs must know them." 

" Peace, thou pretty fool! 
Is this a time to teach an alien tongue?" 
Her mother made lor answer. ''He is sick, 
The Spaniard."' "Cry you mercy," quoth my girl, 
" But I did think 'twere easy to let show 
How both the Psalters are of meaning like; 
If he know Latin, and 'tis like he doth, 
So might he choose a verse to tell his thought." 

Then said I (ay, I did!) "The girl shall try," 
And straight I took her to the Spaniard's side, 



546 ROSAMUND. 



And he, admiring at her, all his face 
Changed to a joy that almost showed as fear, 
So innocent holy she did look, so grave 
Her pitiful eyes. 

She sat beside his bed, 
He covered with the ensign yet; and took 
And showed the Psalters both, and she did speak 
Her English words, but gazing was enough 
For him at her sweet dimple, her blue eyes 
That shone, her English blushes. Rosamund, 
My beautiful dear child. He did but gaze, 
And not perceive her meaning till she touched 
His hand, and in her Psalter showed the word. 

Then was all light to him; he laughed for joy, 
And took the Latin Missal. O full soon, 
Alas, how soon, one read the other's thought! 
Before she left him, she had learned his name 
Alonzo, told him hers, and found the care 
Made night and day uneasy — Cordova, 
There dwelt his father, there his kin, nor knew 
Whether he lived or died, whether in thrall 
To the Islanders for lack of ransom pined 
Or rued the galling yoke of slavery. 

So did he cast him on our kindness. I — 
And care not who may know it — I was kind, 
And for that our stout Queen did think foul scorn 
To kill the Spanish prisoners, and to guard 
So many could not, liefer being to rid 
Our country of them than to spite their own, 
I made him as I might that matter learn, 
Eking scant Latin with my daughter's wit 
And told him men let forth and driven forth 



ROSAMUND. 547 



Did crowd our harbors for the ports of Spain 

By one of whom lie with good aid of mine 

Should let his tidings go and I plucked forth 

His ducats that a meet reward might be. 

Then he, the water standing in his eyes, 

Made old King David's words due thanks convey. 

Then Rosamund, this all made plain, arose 
And curtsey'd to the Spaniard. Ah, methinks 
I yet behold her gracious, innocent 
And flaxen-haired and blushing maidenly, 
When turning she retired, and his black eyes, 
That hunger d after her, did follow on; 
And I bethought me, "Thou shalt see no more, 
Thou goodly enemy, my one ewe lamb." 

0, I would make short work of this. The wound 
Healed, and the Spaniard rose, then could lie stand, 
And then about his chamber walk at ease. 

Now we had counseled how to have him home, 

And that same trading vessel beating up 

The Irish Channel at my will, that same 

I chartered tor to serve me in the war, 

Next was 1 minded should mine enemy 

Deliver to his father, ami his land. 

Daily we looked for her, till in our cove, 

Upon that mom when first the Spaniard walked, 

Behold her rocking; and I hasted down 

And left him waiting in the house. 

Woe's me! 
All being ready speed I home, and lo 
My Rosamund, that by the Spaniard sat 



548 ROSAMUND. 



Upon a cushion'd settle, book in hand. 
I needs must think ho\\ r in the deep alcove 
Thick chequer'd shadows of the window-glass 
Did fall across her kirtle and her locks, 
For I did see her thus no more. 

She held 
Her Psalter, and he his, and slowly read 
Till he would stop her at the needed word. 
"0 well is thee," she read, my Rosamund, 
" well is thee, and happy shalt thou be. 
Thy wife — " and there he stopped her, and he took 
And kissed her hand, and show'd in 's own a ring, 
Taking no heed of me, no heed at all. 

Then I burst forth, the choler red i' my face 
When I did see her blush, and put it on. 
" Give me, " quoth I, and Rosamund, afraid, 
Gave me the ring. I set my heel on it, 
Crushed it, and sent the rubies scattering forth, 
And did in righteous anger storm at him. 
"What! what!" quoth I, "before her father's eyes, 
Thou universal villain, thou ingrate, 
Thou enemy whom I shelter'd, fed, restored, 
Most basest of mankind! " And Rosamund, 
Arisen, her forehead pressed against mine arm, 
And "Father," cries she, "father." 

And I stormed 
At him, while in his Spanish he replied 
As one would speak me fair. "Thou Spanish 

hound ! " 
"Father," she pleaded. "Alien vile," quoth I, 
" Plucked from the death, wilt thou repay me thus? 
It is but three times thou hast set thine eyes 



ROSAMUND. 549 



On this my daughter." "Father," moans my girl; 

And I, not willing to be so withstood, 

Spoke roughly to her. Then the Spaniard's eyes 

Blazed — then he stormed at me in his own tongue, 

And all his Spanish arrogance and pride 

Broke witless on my wrathful English. Then 

He let me know, for I perceived it well, 

He reckon 'd him mine equal, thought foul scorn 

Of my displeasure, and was wroth with me 

As I with him. "Father," sighed ltosainund. 

"Go, get thee to thy mother, girl," quoth I. 

And slowly, slowly, she betook herself 

Down the long hall; in lowly wise she went 

And made her moan. 

But when my girl was gone 
I stood at fault, th' occasion master'd me; 
Belike it master'd him, lor both fell mute. 
1 calmed me, and lie calmed him as he might, 
For I bethought me I was yet an host, 
And he bethought him on the worthiness 
Of my first deeds. 

So made I sign to him 
The tide was up, and soon I had him forth, 
Delivered him his goods, commended him 
To the captain o' the vessel, then plucked off 
.My hat, in seemly fashion taking leave, 
And he was not outdone, but every way 
Gave me respect, and on the deck we two 
Farted, as I did hope, to meet no more. 

Alas! my Rosamund, my Rosamund! 

She did not weep, no. Plain upon me, no. 
JJer eyes mote well have lost the trick of tears: 



55o ROSAMUND. 



As new- washed flowers shake off the down-dropt 

rain, 
And make denial of it, yet more blue 
And fair of favor afterward, so they. 
The wild woodrose was not more fresh of blee 
Than her soft dimpled cheek : but I beheld, 
Come home, a token hung about her neck, 
Sparkling upon her bosom for his sake 
Her love, the Spaniard, she denied it not, 
All unaware, good sooth, such love was bale. 

And all that day went like another day, 
Ay, all the next: then was I glad at heart; 
Methought, "I am glad thou wilt not waste thy 

youth 
Upon an alien man, mine enemy, 
Thy nation's enemy. In truth, in truth, 
This likes me very well. My most dear child, 
Forget yon grave dark mariner. The Lord 
Everlasting," I besought, "bring it to pass." 

Stealeth a darker day within my hall, 
A winter day of wind and driving foam. 
They tell me that my girl is sick — and yet 
Not very sick. I may not hour by hour, 
More than one watching of a moon that wanes, 
Make chronicle of change. A parlous change 
When he looks back to that same moon at full. 

Ah! ah! methought, 'twill pass. It did not pass, 
Though never she made moan. I saw the rings 
Drop from her small white wasted hand. And I, 
Her father, tamed of grief, I would have given 
My land, my name to have her as of old. 



ROSAMUND. 551 



Ay, Rosamund I speak of with the small 

White face. Ay, Rosamund. near as white, 

And mournfuller by much, her mother dear 

Drooped by her couch ; and while of hope and fear 

Lifted or left, as by a changeful tide, 

We thought "The girl is better," or we thought 

"The girl will die," that jewel from her neck 

She drew, and prayed me send it to her love; 

A token she was true e'en to the end. 

What matter'd now? But whom to send, and hour 

To reach the man? I found an old poor priest, 

Some peril 'twas for him and me, she writ 

My pretty Rosamund her heart's farewell, 

She kissed the letter, and that old poor priest, 

Who had eaten of my bread, and Bhelter'd him 

Under my roof in troublous times, he took, 

And to content her on this errand went, 

While she as done with earth did wait the end. . 

Mankind bemoan them on the bitterness 

Of death. Nay, rather le1 them chide the grief 

Of living, chide the waste of mother-love 

For babes that joy to get away to God; 

The waste of work and moil and thonght and thrift 

Ami father-love for sons that heed it not, 

And daughters lost and gone. Ay, let them chide 

These. Yet I chide not. That which I have done 

Was rightly done; and what thereon befell 

Could make no right a wrong, e'en were 't to do 

Again. 

I will be brief. The days drag on, 
My soul forebodes her death, my lonely age. 
Once I despondent in the moaning wood 



552 ROSAMUND. 



Look out, and lo a caravel at sea, 

A man that climbs the rock, and presently 

The Spaniard! 

I did greet him, proud no more. 
He had braved durance, as I knew, ay death, 
To land on th' Island soil. In broken words 
Of English he did ask me how she fared. 
Quoth I, "She is dying, Spaniard; Rosamund 
My girl will die; " but he is fain, saith he, 
To talk with her, and all his mind to speak; 
I answer, "Ay, my whilome enemy, 
But she is dying." "Nay, now nay," quoth he, 
"So be she liveth," and he moved me yet 
For answer; then quoth I, "Come life, come death, 
What thou wilt, say." 

Soon made we Rosamund 
Aware, she lying on the settle, wan 
As a lily in the shade, and while she not 
Believed for marvelling, comes he roundly in, 
The tall grave Spaniard, and with but one smile, 
One look of ruth upon her small pale face, 
All slowly as with unaccustomed mouth, 
Betakes him to that English he hath conned, 
Setting the words out plain : 

"Child! Rosamund! 
Love ! An so please thee, I would be thy man. 
By all the saints will I be good to thee. 
Come." 

Come! what think you, would she come? Ay, a}\ 
They love us, but our love is not their life. 
For the dark mariner's love lived Rosamund. 
Soon for his kiss she bloomed, smiled for his smile. 



ECHO AND THE FERRY. 553 

(Te Spaniard depare'eh en as tli' Evangel saith 
And bore in 's bosom forth my golden sheaf.) 
She loved her father and her mother well, 
But loved the Spaniard better. It was sad 
To part, but she did part ; and it was far 
To go, but she did go. The priest was brought, 
The ring was bless 'd that bound my Rosamund, 
She sailed, and 1 shall never see her more. 

One soweth and another reapeth. Ay, 
Too true ! too true ! 



ECHO AND THE FERRY. 

Ay, Oliver! I was but seven, and he w r as eleven; 
He looked at me pouting and rosy. I blushed 

where I stood. 
They had told us to play in the orchard (and I only 

seven ! 
I small guest at the farm) ; but he said, " Oh, a girl 

was no good ! " 
So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to 

the wood. 
It was sad, it was sorrowful! Only a girl — only 

seven ! 
At home in the dark London smoke I had not found 

it out. 
The pear-trees looked on in their white, and bine 

birds flash M about, 
And they too were angry as Oliver. Were they 

eleven? 



554 ECHO AND THE FERRY. 

I thought so. Yes, every one else was eleven — 
eleven ! 

So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my 
feet, 

And all the white orchard with fast-falling blos- 
som was litter'd; 

And under and over the branches those little birds 
twitter'd, 

While hanging head downwards they scolded be- 
cause I was seven. 

A pity. A very great pity. One should be eleven. 

But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was 
so sweet, 

And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and 
old. 

Then I knew ! for I peeped, and I felt it was right 
they should scold! 

Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke 
into laughter; 

And then some one else — oh, how softly! — came 
after, came after 

With laughter — with laughter came after. 

And no one was near us to utter that sweet mock- 
ing call, 

That soon very tired sank low with a mystical fall. 

But this was the country — perhaps it was close 
under heaven; 

Oh, nothing so likely; the voice might have come 
from it even. 

I knew about heaven. But this was the country, 
of this 



ECHO AND THE FERRY. 555 

Light, blossom, and piping, and flashing of wings 

not at all. 
Not at all. No. But one little bird was an easy 

f orgiver : 
She peeped, she drew near as I moved from her 

domicile small, 
Then flashed down her hole like a dart — like a 

dart from the quiver. 
And I waded atween the long grasses and felt it 

was bliss. 

— So this was the country; clear dazzle of azure 

and shiver 
And whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the 

tall 
White branches, a humming of bees. And I came 

to the wall — 
A little low wall — and looked over, and there was 

the river, 
The lane that led on to the village, and then the 

sweet river 
Clear shining and slow, she had far far to go from 

her snow; 
But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to 

guard her long flow, 
And she murmur'd, niethought. with a speech very 

soft — very low. 
"The ways will be long, but the days will be long," 

quoth the river, 
kk To me a long liver, long, long! " quoth the river 

— the river. 

I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, 
the sky, 



556 ECHO AND THE FERRY. 

The voice that had mocked coming after and over 

and under. 
But at last — in a day or two namely — Eleven 

and I 
Were very fast friends, and to him I confided the 

wonder. 
He said that was Echo. " Was Echo a wise kind 

of bee 
That had learned how to laugh : could it laugh in 

one's ear and then fly 
And laugh again yonder?" "No; Echo" — he 

whispered it low — 
" Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no 

one could see 
And no one could find; and he did not believe it, 

not he, 
But he could not get near for the river that held us 

asunder. 
Yet I that had money — a shilling, a whole silver 

shilling — 
We might cross if I thought I would spend it." 

" Oh yes, I was willing " — 
And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the 

ferry, the ferry, 
And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a 

voice clear and merry 
When they called for the ferry; but oh! she was 

very — was very 
Swift-footed. She spoke and was gone; and when 

Oliver cried, 
" Hie over ! hie over ! you man of the ferry — the 

ferry ! " 
By the still water's side she was heard far and 

wide — she replied 



ECHO AND THE FERRY. 557 

And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry, 

" You man of the ferry, 
Yon man of — you man of the ferry ! " 

" Hie over ! " he shouted. The ferryman came at 
his calling, 

Across the clear reed-border'd river he ferried us 
fast ; — 

Such a chase ! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran 
on; it surpass \l 

All measure her doubling — so close, then so far- 
away falling, 

Then gone, and no more. Oh! to see her but oace 
unaware, 

And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not 
(yet sure she was there!), 

Nor behold her wild eyes and her mystical counte- 
nance fair. 

We sought in the wood, and we found the wood- 
wren in her stead ; 

In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that 
talked overhead ; 

By the brook, and we found the reed-sparrow deep- 
nested, in brown — 

Not Echo, fair Echo! for Echo, sweet Echo! was 
flown. 

So we came to the place where the dead people 
wait till God call. 

The church was among them, gray moss over roof, 
over wall. 

Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green 
grassy mound 



558 ECHO AND THE FERRY. 

And looked in at a window, for Echo, perhaps, in 

her round 
Might have come in to hide there. But no; every 

oak-carven seat 
Was empty. We saw the great Bible — old, old, 

very old, 
And the parson's great Prayer-book beside it; we 

heard the slow beat 
Of the pendulum swing in the tower; we saw the 

clear gold 
Of a sunbeam* float down to the aisle and then 

waver and play 
On the low chancel step and the railing, and Oliver 

said, 
"Look, Katie! look, Katie! when Lettice came 

here to be wed 
She stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all 

white was her gown; 
And she stepped upon flowers they strew 'd for 

her." Then quoth small Seven: 
"Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to 

walk upon ever? " 
All doubtful: "It takes a long time to grow up," 

quoth Eleven; 
" You're so little, you know, and the church is so 

old, it can never 
Last on till you're tall." And in whispers — be- 
cause it was old 
And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half 

felt, but not told, 
Full of old parsons' prayers, who were dead, of old 

days, of old folk, 
Neither heard nor beheld, but about us, in whis- 
pers we spoke. 



ECHO AND THE FERRY. 559 

Then we went from it softly and ran hand in hand 

to the strand, 
While bleating of flocks and birds' piping made 

sweeter the land. 
And Echo came back e'en as Oliver drew to the 

ferry 
" Katie ! " " Katie ! " " Come on, then ! " " Come 

on, then ! " " For, see, 
The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree " — 

"by the tree." 
"By the tree." Ay, she mocked him again, with 

her voice sweet and merry : 
"Hie over!" "Hie over!" "You man of the 

ferry " — " the ferry." 

"You man of the ferry — 

You man of — you man of — the ferry." 

Ay, here — it was here that we woke her, the Echo 

of old; 
All life of that day seems an echo, and many times 

told. 
Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in 

my white 
To that little low church? and will Oliver meet 

me anon'.' 
Will it all seem an echo from childhood pass'd 

over — pass'd on? 
Will the grave parson bless us? Hark, hark! in 

the dim failing light 
I hear her! As then the child's voice clear and 

high, sweet and merry 
Now she mocks the man's tone with "Hie over! 

Hie over the ferry! " 



560 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 

" And Katie." " And Katie." " Art out with the 
glow-worms to-night, 

My Katie? " " My Katie ! " Eor gladness I break 
into laughter 

And tears. Then it all conies again as from far- 
away years 

Again, some one else — oh, how softly ! — with 
laughter comes after, 

Comes after — with laughter comes after. 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 

A Schoolroom. 

Schoolmaster (not certificated), Vicar, and Child. 

Vicar. Why did you send for me? I hope all's 

right? 
Schoolmaster. "Well, sir, we thought this end o' 

the room was dark. 
V. Indeed! So 'tis. There's my new study 

lamp — 
S. 'Twould stand, sir, well beside yon laurel 

wreath. 
Shall I go fetch it? 

V. Do, we must not fail. 

Bring candles also. 

[Exit Schoolmaster. Vicar arranges chairs. 

Now, small six years old, 
And why may you be here? 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 561 

Child. I'm helping father; 

But, father, why d' you take such pains? 

V. Sweet soul, 

That's what I'm for! 

C. What, and for nothing else? 

V. Yes! I'm to bring thee up to be a man. 

C. And what am I for? 

V. There, I'm busy now. 

C. Am I to bring you up to be a child? 

V. Perhaps! Indeed, I have heard it said thou 
art. 

C. Then when may I begin? 

V. I'm busy, I say. 

Begin to-morrow an thou canst, my son. 
And mind to do it well. 

[Exit Vital* and Chili*. 



Enter a group of women, and some childr 



en. 



Mrs. Thorpe. Fine lot o' lights! 

Mrs. Jilliftr. Should be! Would folk put on 
their Sunday best 
I' the week unless they looked to have it seen? 
What, you here, neighbor! 

Mrs. Smith. Ay, you may Bay that. 

Old madam called; said she, " My son would feel 
So sorry if you did not come," and slipped 
The penny in my hand, she did; said I, 
"Ma'am, that's not it. In short, some say your 

last 
Was worth the penny and more. I know a man, 
A sober man, who said, and stuck to it, 
Worth a good twopence. But I'm strange, I'm shy." 
k ' We hope you'll come for once, " said she. In short, 



562 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 

I said I would to oblige 'em. 

Mrs. Green. Ah, 'twas well. 

Mrs. S. But I feel strange, and music gets V 
my throat, 
It always did. And singers be so smart, 
Ladies and folk from other parishes, 
Candles and cheering, greens and flowers and all, 
I was not used to such in my young day; 
We kept ourselves at home. 

Mrs. J. Never say " used, " 

The most of us have many a thing to do 
We were not used to. If you come to that, 
Why none of us are used to growing old, 
It takes us by surprise, as one may say, 
That work, when we begin 't, and yet 'tis work 
That all of us must do. 

Mrs. G. Nay, nay, not all. 

Mrs. J. I ask your pardon, neighbor; you be 
right, 
Not all. 

Mrs. G. And my sweet maid scarce three 
months dead. 

Mrs. J. I ask your pardon truly. 

Mrs. G. No, my dear, 

Thou'lt never see old days. I cannot stint 
To fret, the maiden was but twelve years old, 
So toward, such a scholar. 

Mrs. S. Ay, when God, 

That knows, comes down to choose, 
He'll take the best. 

Mrs. T. But I'm right glad you came, 

it pleases them. 
My son, that loves his book, "Mother," said he, 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 563 

" Go to the Keading when you have a chance, 

For there you get a change, and you see life." 

But Keading or no Keading, I am slow 

To learn. When parson after comes his rounds, 

"Did it," to ask with a persuading smile, 

" Open your mind? " the woman doth not live 

Feels more a fool. 

Mrs. J. I always tell him " Yes," 

For he means well. Ay, and I like the songs. 
Have you heard say what they shall read to-night? 

Mrs. S. Neighbor, I hear 'tis something of the 
East. 
But what, I ask you, is the East to us, 
And where d' ye think it lies? 

Mrs. J. The children know, 

At least they say they do; there's nothing deep 
Nor nothing strange but they get hold on it. 

Enter Schoolmaster and a dozen children. 

S. Now ladies, ladies, you must please to sit 
More close; the room fills fast, and all these lads 
And maidens either have to sing before 
The Keading, or else after. By your leave 
I'll have them in the front, I want them here. 

[ The women make room. 

Enter ploughmen, villagers, servants, and children. 

And mark me, boys, if I hear cracking o' nuts, 
Or see you flicking acorns and what not 
While folks from other parishes observe, 
You'll hear on it when you don't look to. Tom 
And Jemmy and Koger, sing as loud 's ye can, 
Sing a the maidens do, are they afraid? 



564 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 

And now I'm stationed handy facing yon, 
Friends all, I'll drop a word by yonr good leave. 

Young j)loughman. Do, master, do, we like your 
words a vast. 
Though there be naught to back 'em up, ye see, 
As when we were smaller. 

S. Mark me, then, my lads. 

When Lady Laura sang, "I don't think much," 
Says her fine coachman, "of your manners here. 
We drove eleven miles in the dark, it rained, 
And ruts in your cross roads are deep. We're 

here, 
My lady sings, they sit all open-mouthed, 
And when she's done they never give one cheer." 

Old man. Be folks to clap if they don't like the 
song? 

S. Certain, for manners. 

Enter Vicar, wife, various friends icith violins and a 
flute. They come to a piano, and one begins softly 
to tune his violin, while the Vicar speaks. 

V. Friends, since there is a place where you 
must hear 
When I stand up to speak, I would not now 
If there were any other found to bid 
You welcome. Welcome, then; these with me ask 
No better than to please, and n good sooth 
I ever find you willing to be pleased. 
When I demand not more, but when we fain 
W'ould lead you to some knowledge fresh, and ask 
Your careful heed, I hear that some of you 
Have said, "What good to know, what good to us? 
He puts us all to school, and our school days 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 565 



Should be at end. Nay, if they needs must teach, 
Then let them teach us what shall mend our lot ; 
The laws are strict on us, the world is hard." 
You friends and neighbors, may I dare to speak? 
I know the laws are strict, and the world hard, 
For ever will the world help that man up 
That is already coming up, and still 
And ever help him down that's going down. 
Yet say, " I will take the words out of thy mouth, 
O world, being yet more strict with mine own life. 
Thou law, to gaze shall not be worth thy while 
On whom beyond thy power doth rule himself." 
Yet seek to know, for whoso seek to know 
They seek to rise, and best they mend their lot. 
Methinks, if Adam and Eve in their garden days 
Had scorned the serpent, and obediently 
Continued God's good children, He Himself 
Had led them to the Tree of Knowledge soon 
And bid them eat the fruit thereof, and yet 
Not find it apples of death. 

Vicar's wife (aside). Now, dearest John, 

We're ready. Lucky too! you always go 
Above the people's heads. 

Young farmer stands forward, Vicar presenting him. 

SONG. 

I. 

Sparkle of snow and of frost, 
Blythe air and the joy of cold, 

Their grace and good they have lost, 
As print o' her foot by the fold. 

Let me back to yon desert sand, 



566 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 

Kose-lipped love — from the fold, 
Flower-fair girl — from the fold, 
Let me back to the sultry land. 
The world is empty of cheer, 

Forlorn, forlorn, and forlorn, 
As the night-owl's sob of fear, 
As Memnon moaning at morn. 
For love of thee, my dear, 
I have lived a better man, 
O my Mary Anne, 
My Mary Anne. 

ii. 

Away, away, away and away, 

To an old palm-land of tombs, 
Washed clear of our yesterday 

And where never a snowdrop blooms, 
Nor wild becks talk as they go 

Of tender hope we had known, 
Nor mosses of memory grow 

All over the wayside stone. 

in. 

Farewell, farewell, and farewell, 

As voice of a lover's sigh 
In the wind let yon willow wave 

"Farewell, farewell, and farewell." 
The sparkling frost-stars brave 

On thy shrouded bosom lie ; 
Thou art gone apart to dwell, 

But I fain would have said good-bye. 
For love of thee in thy grave 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 567 

I have lived a better man, 
Oh my Mary Anne, 
My Mary Anne. 

Mrs. Thorpe (aside). hearts! why, what a 
song! 
To think on it, and he a married man ! 

Mrs. JilUfer (aside). Bless you, that makes for 
nothing, nothing at all, 
They take no heed upon the words. His wife, 
Look you, as pleased as may be, smiles on him. 

Mrs. T. (aside). Neighbors, there's one thing 
beats me. We've enough 
O' trouble in the world; I've cried my fill 
Many and many a time by my own fire : 
Now why, I'll ask you, should it comfort me 
And ease my heart when, pitiful and sweet, 
One sings of other souls, and how they mourned? 
A body would have thought that did not know 
Songs must be merry, full of feast and mirth, 
Or else would all folk flee away from them. 

Mrs. S. (aside). 'Tis strange, and I too love 
the sad ones best. 

Mrs. T. (aside). Ay, how they clap him! 
'Tis as who should say, 
Sing} we were pleased; sing us another song; 
As if they did not know he loves to sing. 
Well may he, not an organ pipe they blow 
On Sunday in the church is half so sweet; 
But he's a hard man. 

Mrs. J. (aside). Mark me, neighbors all, 
Hard though he be — ay, and the mistress hard — 
If he do sing 'twill be a sorrowful 



568 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 

Sad tale of sweethearts, that shall make you wish 
Your own time would come over again, although 
Were partings in 't and tears. Hist! now he 
sings. 

Young farmer sings again. 

"Come hither, come hither." The broom was in 
blossom all over yon rise; 
There went a wide murmur of brown bees about 
it with songs from the wood. 
" We shall never be younger ! O love, let us forth, 
for the world 'neath our eyes, 
Ay, the world is made young e'en as we, and 
right fair is her youth and right good." 

Then there fell the great yearning upon me, that 
never yet went into words; 
While lovesome and moansome thereon spake 
and falter 'd the dove to the dove. 
And I came at her calling, "Inherit, inherit, and 
sing with the birds ; " 
I went up to the wood with the child of my 
heart and the wife of my love. 

pure! pathetic! Wild hyacinths drank it, 
the dream light, apace 
Not a leaf moved at all 'neath the blue, they 
hung waiting for messages kind; 
Tall cherry-trees dropped their white blossom that 
drifted no whit from its place, 
For the south very far out to sea had the lulling 
low voice of the wind. 

And the child's dancing foot gave us part in the 
ravishment almost a pain, 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 569 

An infinite tremor of life, a fond murmur that 

cried out on time, 
Ah short! must all end in the doing and spend 

itself sweetly in vain, 
And the promise be only fulfilment to lean from 

the height of its prime? 

"We shall never be younger; " nay, mock me Dot, 
fancy, none call from yon tree; 
They have thrown me the world they went over, 
went up, and, alas ! for my part 
I am left to grow old, and to grieve, and to change; 
but they change not with me ; 
They will never be older, the child of my love, 
and the wife of my heart. 

Mrs. J. I told you so ! 

Mrs. T. (aside). That did you, neighbor. Ay, 
Partings, said you, and tears : I liked the song. 
Mrs. G. Who be these coming to the front to 

sing? 
Mrs. J. (aside). Why, neighbor, these be sweet- 
hearts, so 'tis said, 
And there was much ado to make her sine: 
She would, and would not; and he wanted her, 
And, mayhap, wanted to be seen with her. 
'Tis Tomlin's pretty maid, his only one. 

Mrs. G. (aside). I did not know the maid, so 

fair she looks. 
Mrs. J. (aside). He's a right proper man she 
has at last; 
Walks over many a mile (and counts them naught) 
To court her alter work hours, that he doth, 



570 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 

!Not like her other — why, he'd let his work 

Go all to wrack, and lay it to his love, 

While he would sit and look, and look and sigh. 

Her father sent him to the right-about. 

"If love," said he, "won't make a man of you, 

Why, nothing will! 'Tis mainly that love's for. 

The right sort makes," said he, "a lad a man; 

The wrong sort makes," said he, "a man a fool." 

Vicar presents a young man and a girl. 

DUET. 

She. While he dreams, mine old grand-sire, 
And yon red logs glow, 
Honey, whisper by the fire, 
Whisper, honey, low. 

He. Honey, high 's yon weary hill, 
Stiff 's yon weary loam; 
Lacks the work o' my good will, 
Fain I'd take thee home. 

O how much longer, and longer, and longer, 
An' how much longer shall the waiting last? 

Berries red are grown, April birds are flown, 
Martinmas gone over, ay, and harvest past. 

She. Honey, bide, the time's awry, 

Bide awhile, let be. 
He. Take my wage then, lay it by, 

Till 't come back with thee. 

The red money, the white money, 
Both to thee I bring — 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING . 571 

She. Bring ye aught beside, honey? 
He. Honey, ay, the ring. 

Duet. But how much longer, and longer, and 
longer, 
O how much longer shall the waiting 
last? 
Berries red are grown, April birds are 
flown, 
Martinmas gone over, and the harvest 
past. 

[Applause. 

Mrs. S. (aside). she's a pretty maid, and 

sings so small 
And high, 'tis like a flute. And she must blush 
Till all her face is roses newly blown. 
How folks do clap ! She knows not where to look. 
There now she's off; he standing like a man 
To face them. 

Mrs. G. (aside). Makes his bow, and after her ; 
But what's the good of clapping when they're 

gone? 
Mrs. T. (aside). Why 'tis a London fashion as 

I'm told, 
And means they'd have 'em back to sing again. 
Mrs. J. (aside). Neighbors, look where her 

father, red as fire, 
Sits pleased and 'shamed, smoothing his Sunday 

hat; 
And Parson bustles out. Clap on, clap on. 
Coming? Not she! There comes her sweetheart 

though. 



572 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 



Vicar presents the young man again. 



SONG. 



Eain clouds flew beyond the fell, 

No more did thunders lower, 
Patter, patter, on the beck 
Dropt a clearing shower. 
Eddying floats of creamy foam 

Flecked the waters brown, 
As we rode up to cross the ford, 
Rode up from yonder town. 
Waiting on the weather, 
She and I together, 
Waiting on the weather, 
Till the flood went down. 



ii. 



The sun came out, the wet leaf shone, 

Dripped the wildwood vine. 
Betide me well, betide me woe, 

That hour's forever mine. 
WitVthee Mary, with thee Mary, 

Full oft I pace again, 
Asleep, awake, up yonder glen, 
And hold thy bridle rein. 
Waiting on the weather, 
Thou and I together, 
Waiting on the weather, 
Till the flood shall wane. 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 573 

in. 

And who, though hope did come to naught, 

Would memory give away? 
I lighted down, she leaned full low, 

Nor chid that hour's delay. 
With thee Mary, with thee Mary, 

Methought my life to crown, 
But we ride up, but we ride up, 
No more from yonder town. 
Waiting on the weather, 
Thou and I together, 
Waiting on the weather, 
Till the flood go down. 

Mrs. J. (aside). Well, very well; but what of 
fiddler Sam*/ 
I ask you, neighbors, if 't be not his turn. 
An honest man, and ever pays his score; 
Born in the parish, old, blind as a bat, 
And strangers sing before him; 'tis a shame! 

Mrs. S. (aside). Ay, but his daughter — 

Mrs. J. (aside). Why, the maid's a maid 

One would not set to guide the chant in church, 
Hut when she sings to earn her father's bread, 
The mildest mother's son may cry "Amen." 

Mrs. S. (aside). They say he plays not always 
true. 

Mm. J. (aside). What then? 

Mrs. T. (aside). Here comes my lady. She's 
too fat by half 
For love songs. O ! the lace upon her gown, 
I wish I had the getting of it up, 
'T would be a pretty penny in my pouch. 



574 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 
Mrs. J. (aside). Be quiet now for manners. 
Vicar presents a lady, who sings. 
i. 

Dark flocks of wildfowl riding out the storm 

Upon a pitching sea, 
Beyond gray rollers vex'd that rear and form, 
When piping winds urge on their destiny, 
To fall back ruined in white continually. 
And I at our try sting stone, 
Whereto I came down alone, 
Was fain o' the wind's wild moan. 
O, welcome were wrack and were rain 
And beat of the battling main, 
Tor the sake of love's sweet pain, 
For the smile in two brown eyes, 
For the love in any wise, 
To bide though the last day dies ; 
For a hand on my wet hair, 
For a kiss e'en yet I wear, 
For — bonny Jock was there. 

ii. 

Pale precipices while the sun lay low 

Tinct faintly of the rose, 
And mountain islands mirror' d in a flow, 
Forgotten of all winds (their manifold 
Peaks reared into the glory and the glow), 

Floated in purple and gold. 

And I, o'er the rocks alone, 

Of a shore all silent grown, 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 575 

Came down to our try sting stone. 
And sighed when the solemn ray 
Paled in the wake o' the day. 
" Wellaway, wellaway — 
Comfort is not by the shore, 
Going the gold that it wore, 
Purple and rose are no more, 
World and waters are wan, 
And night will be here anon, 
And — bonny Jock's gone." 

[Moderate applause, and calls for fiddler Sam. 

Mrs. J. (aside). Now, neighbors, call again and 
be not 'shamed; 
Stand by the parish, and the parish folk, 
Them that are poor. I told you! here he comes, 
Parson looks glum, but brings him and his girl. 

The fiddler Sam plays, and his daughter sings. 

Touch the sweet string. Fly forth, my heart, 

Upon the music like a bird; 
The silvery notes shall add their part, 

And haply yet thou shalt be heard. 
Touch the sweet string. 

The youngest wren of nine 

Dimpled, dark, and merry, 
Brown her locks, and her two eyne 

Browner than a berry. 

When I was not in love 
Maidens met I many; 



576 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 

Under sun now walks but one. 
Nor others mark I any. 

Twin lambs, a mild-eyed ewe, 
That would her follow bleating, 

A heifer white as snow 

I'll give to my sweet sweeting. 

Touch the sweet string. 

If yet too young, 
love of loves, for this my song, 
I'll pray thee count it all unsung, 
And wait thy leisure, wait it long. 
Touch the sweet string. 

[Much applause. 

Vicar. You hear them, Sam. You needs must 
play again, 
Your neighbors ask it. 

Fiddler. Thank ye, neighbors all, 
I have my feelings though I be but poor; 
I've tanged the fiddle here this forty year, 
And I should know the trick on 't. 

The fiddler plays, and his daughter sings. 

For Exmoor — 

For Exmoor, where the red deer run, my weary 
heart doth cry. 

She that will a rover wed, far her foot shall hie. 

Xarrow, narrow, shows the street, dull the narrow 
sky. 

(Buy my cherries, whiteheart cherries, good my mas- 
ters, buy.) 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. $77 



For Exmoor — 

O he left me, left alone, aye to think and sigh, 

"Lambs feed down yon sunny coombe, hind and 
yearling shy, 

Mid the shrouding vapors walk now like ghosts 
on high." 

(Buy my cherries, blackheart cherries, lads and las- 
sies, buy.) 

For Exmoor — 

Dear my dear, why did ye so? Evil days have I, 

Mark no more the antler'd stag, hear the curlew 

cry. 
Milking at my father's gate while he leans anigh. 
(Buy my cherries, whitehead, blackheart, golden rjirls, 

buy.) 

Mrs. T. (aside). I've known him play that Ex- 
moor song afore. 
Ah me ! and I'm from Exmoor. I could wish 
To hear 't no more. 

Mrs. S. (aside). Neighbors, 'tis mighty hot. 
Ay, now they throw the window up, that's well, 
A body could not breathe. 

[The fiddler and his daughter go away. 

Mrs. J. (aside). They'll hear no parson's preach- 
ing, no not they ! 

But innocenter songs, I do allow, 

They could not well have sung than these to^ 
night. 

That man knows just so well as if he saw 

They were not welcome. 



578 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 

The Vicar stands up, on the point of beginning to 
read, ivhe?i the tuning and twang of the fiddle 
is heard close outside the open window, and the 
daughter sings in a clear, cheerful voice. A little 
tittering is heard in the room, and the Vicar 
pauses discomfited. 

i. 

my heart ! what a coil is here ! 
Laurie, why will ye count me dear! 
Laurie, Laurie, lad, make not wail, 
With a wiser lass ye'll sure prevail, 
For ye sing like a woodland nightingale. 
And there's no sense in it under the sun; 
For of three that avoo I can take but one, 
So what's to be done — what's to be done? 

And 
There's no sense in it under the sun. 

ii. 
Hal, brave Hal, from your foreign parts 
Come home you'll choose among kinder hearts. 
Forget, forget, you're too good to hold 
A fancy 'twere best should faint, grow cold, 
And fade like an August marigold ; 
For of three that woo I can take but one, 
And what's to be done — what's to be done? 
There's no sense in it under the sun. 

And 
Of three that woo I can take but one. 

in. 

Geordie, Georclie, I count you true, 
Though language sweet I have none for you. 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 579 

Nay, but take me home to the churning mill 

When cherry boughs white on yon mounting hill 

Hang over the tufts o' the daffodil. 

For what's to be done — what's to be done? 

Of three that woo I must e'en take one, 

Or there's no sense in it under the sun, 

And 
What's to be done — what's to be done? 

V. (aside). What's to be done, indeed! 

Wife (aside). Done! nothing, love. 

Either the thing has done itself, or they 
Must undo. Did they call for fiddler Sam? 
Well, now they have him. 

[More tuning heard outside. 

Mrs. J. (aside). Live and let live's my motto. 

Mrs. T. So 'tis mine. 

Who's Sam, that he must fly in Parson's face? 
He's had his turn. He never gave these lights, 
Cut his best flowers — 

Mrs. S. (aside). He takes no pride in us. 

Speak up, good neighbor, get the window shut. 

Mrs. J. (rising). I ask your pardon truly, that I 
do — 
La! but the window — there's a parlous draught; 
The window punishes rheumatic folk — 
We'd have it shut, sir. 

Others. Truly? th.it we would. 

V. Certainly, certainly, my friends, you shall. 

[The tvindow is shut, and the Reading begins amid 
marked attention. 



53o KISMET. 



KISMET. 

Into the rock the road is cut full deep, 

At its low ledges village children play, 

From its high rifts fountains of leafage weep, 
And silvery birches sway. 

The boldest climbers have its face forsworn, 
Sheer as a wall it doth all daring flout; 

But benchlike at its base, and weather-worn, 
A narrow ledge leans out. 

There do they set forth feasts in dishes rude 

Wrought of the rush — wild strawberries on 
the bed 

Left into August, apples brown and crude, 
Cress from the cold well-head. 

Shy gamesome girls, small daring imps of boys, 
But gentle, almost silent at their play — 

Their fledgling daws, for food, make far more noise 
Banged on the ledge than they. 

The children and the purple martins share 

(Loveliest of birds) possession of the place ; 

They veer and dart cream-breasted round the fair 
Faces with wild sweet grace. 

Fresh haply from Palmyra desolate, 

Palmyra pale in light and storyless — 

From perching in old Tadmor mate by mate 
In the waste wilderness. 



KISMET. 581 

These know the world; what do the children know? 

They know the woods, their groaning noises 
weird, 
They climb in trees that overhang the slow 

Deep mill-stream, loved and feared. 

"Where shaken water-wheels go creak and clack, 
List while a lorn thrush calls and almost 
speaks ; 

See willow-wrens with elderberries black 
Staining their slender beaks. 

They know full well haw squirrels spend the day ; 

They peeped when field-mice stole and stored 
the seeds, 
And voles along their under-water way 

Donned collars of bright beads. 

Still from the deep-cut road they love to mark 
Where set, as in a frame, the nearer shapes 

Rise out of hill and wood ; then long downs dark 
As purple bloom on grapes. 

But farms whereon the tall wheat musters gold, 
High barley whitening, creases in bare hills, 

Reed-feathered, castle-like brown churches old, 
Nor churning water-mills, 

Shall make aught seem so fair as that beyond — 
Beyond the down, which draws their fealty; 

Blow high, blow low, some hearts do aye respond, 
The wind is from the sea. 



582 KISMET. 



Above the steep-cut steps as they did grow, 

The children's cottage homes embowered are 
seen ; 

Were this a world nnf alien, they scarce could show 
More beauteous red and green. 

Milk-white and vestal-chaste the hollyhock 

Grows tall, clove, sweetgale nightly shed forth 
spice, 

Long woodbines leaning over scent the rock 
With airs of Paradise. 

Here comforted of pilot stars they lie 

In charmed dreams, but not of wold nor lea. 

Behold a ship ! her wide yards score the sky ; 
She sails a steel-blue sea. 

As turns the great amassment of the tide, 

Drawn of the silver despot to her throne, 

So turn the destined souls, so far and wide 
The strong deep claims its own. 

Still the old tale, these dreaming islanders, 

Each with hot Sunderbunds a somewhat owns 

That calls, the grandsire's blood within them stirs, 
Dutch Java guards his bones. 

And these were orphan'd when a leak was sprang 
Far out from land when all the air was balm ; 

The shipmen saw their faces as they hung, 
And sank in the glassy calm. 

These, in an orange-sloop their father plied, 

Deck-laden deep she sailed from Cadiz town, 



KISMET. 5 S3 



A black squall rose, she turned upon her side, 
Drank water and went down. 

They too shall sail. High names of alien lands 
Are in the dream, great names their fathers 
knew ; 

Madras, the white surf rearing on her sands, 
E'en they shall breast it too. 

See threads of scarlet down fell Roa creep, 

When moaning winds rend back her vaporous 
veil; 

Wild Orinoco wedge-like split the deep, 
Raging forth passion-pale; 

Or a blue berg at sunrise glittering, tall, 
Great as a town adrift" come shining on 

With sharp spires, gemlike as the mystical 
Clear city of Saint John. 

Still the old tale; but they are children yet; 

let their mothers have them while they may! 
Soon it shall work, the strange mysterious fret 

That mars both toil and play. 

The sea will claim its own; and some shall mourn; 

They also, they, but yet will surely go; 
So surely as the planet to its bourne, 

The chamois to his snow. 



" Father, dear father, bid us now God-speed ; 

We cannot choose but sail, it thus befell." 
"Mother, dear mother — " 

" Nay, 'tis all decreed. 

Dear hearts, farewell, farewell ! " 



584 DORA. 



DORA. 

A waxing moon that, crescent yet, 
In all its silver beauty set, 
And rose no more in the lonesome night 
To shed full-orbed its longed-for light. 

Then was it dark ; on wold and lea, 

In home, in heart, the hours were drear. 

Father and mother could no light see, 

And the hearts trembled and there was fear. 

— So on the mount, Christ's chosen three, 

Unware that glory it did shroud, 

Feared when they entered into the cloud. 

She was the best part of love's fair 
Adornment, life's God-given care, 
As if He bade them guard His own, 
Who should be soon anear His throne. 
Dutiful, happy, and who say 
When childhood smiles itself away, 
"More fair than morn shall prove the day." 
Sweet souls so nigh to God that rest, 
How shall be bettering of your best ! 
That promise heaven alone shall view, 
That hope can ne'er with us come true, 
That prophecy life hath not skill, 
No, nor time leave that it fulfil. 
There is but heaven, for childhood never 
Can yield the all it meant, forever. 
Or is there earth, must wane to less 
What dawned so close by perfectness. 



DORA. 585 



How guileless, sweet, by gift divine, 
How beautiful, dear child, was thine — 
Spared all their grief of thee bereaven, 
Winner, who had not greatly striven, 
Hurts of sin shall not thee soil, 
Carking care thy beauty spoil, 
So early blest, so young forgiven. 

Among the meadows fresh to view, 
And in the woodland ways she grew, 
On either side a hand to hold, 
Nor the world's worst of evil knew, 
Nor rued its miseries manifold, 
Nor made discovery of its cold. 
"What more, like one with morn content, 
Or of the morrow diffident, 
Unconscious, beautiful she stood, 
Calm, in young stainless maidenhood. 
Then, with the last steps childhood trod, 
Took up her fifteen years to God. 

Farewell, sweet hope, not long to last, 
All life is better for thy past. 
Farewell till love with sorrow meet, 

To learn that tears are obsolete. 



SPERANZA. 

Her younger sister, that Speranza bight. 

Exglaxd puts on her purple, and pale, pale 

With too much light, the primrose doth but wait 
To meet the hyacinth; then bower and dale 



586 SPERANZA. 

Shall lose her and each fairy woodland mate. 
April forgets them, for their utmost sum 
Of gift was silent, and the birds are come. 

The world is stirring, many voices blend, 
The English are at work in field and way; 

All the good finches on their wives attend, 
And emmets their new towns lay out in clay; 

Only the cuckoo-bird only doth say 

Her beautiful name, and float at large all day. 

Everywhere ring sweet clamors, chirruping, 
Chirping, that comes before the grasshopper; 

The wide woods, flurried with the pulse of spring, 
Shake out their wrinkled buds with tremor and 
stir; 

Small noises, little cries, the ear receives 

Light as a rustling foot on last year's leaves. 

All in deep dew the satisfied deep grass 

Looking straight upward stars itself with white, 

Like ships in heaven full-sailed do long clouds pass 

Slowly o'er this great peace, and wide sweet 

light, 

While through moist meads draws down yon rushy 

mere 
Influent waters, sobbing, shining, clear. 

Almost is rapture poignant; somewhat ails 

The heart and mocks the morning; somewhat 
sighs, 
And those sweet foreigners, the nightingales, 
Made restless with their love, pay down its 
price, 



SPERANZA. 587 

Even the pain; then all the story unfold 
Over and over again — yet 'tis not told. 

The mystery of the world whose name is life 

(One of the names of God) all-conquering wends 

And works for aye with rest and cold at strife. 
Its pedigree goes up to Him and ends. 

For it the lucent heavens are clear o'erhead, 

And all the meads are made its natal bed. 

Dear is the light, and eye-sight ever sweet, 
What see they all fair lower tilings that nurse, 

No wonder, and no doubt? Truly their meat, 
Their kind, their field, their foes; man's eyes 
are more; 

Sight is man's having of the universe, 

His pass to the majestical far shore. 

But it is not enough, ah not enough 

To look upon it and be held away, 
And to be sure that, while we tread the rough, 

Remote dull paths of this dull world, no ray 
Shall pierce to us from the inner soul of things, 
Nor voice thrill out from its deep master-strings. 

" To show the skies, and tether to the sod ! 

A daunting gilt! " we mourn in our long strife, 
And God is more than all our thought of God; 

E'en life itself more than our thought of life, 
And that is all we know — and it is noon, 
Our little day will soon he done — how soon! 

let us to ourselves be dutiful : 

We are not satisfied, we have wanted all, 



588 SPERANZA. 



Not alone beauty, but that Beautiful ; 

A lifted veil, an answering mystical. 
Ever men plead, and plain, admire, implore, 
" Why gavest Thou so much — and yet — not more. 

We are but let to look, and Hope is weighed." 
Yet, say the Indian words of sweet renown, 

" The doomed tree withholdeth not her shade 
From him that bears the axe to cut her clown ; " 

Is hope cut down, dead, doomed, all is vain : 

The third day dawns, she too has risen again 

(For Faith is ours by gift, but Hope by right), 
And walks among us whispering as of yore : 

"Glory and grace are thrown thee with the light; 
Search, if not yet thou touch the mystic shore ; 

Immanent beauty and good are nigh at hand, 

For infants laugh and snowdrops bloom in the land. 

Thou shalt have more anon." What more? In 
sooth, 

The mother of to-morrow is to-day, 
And brings forth after her kind. There is no ruth 

On the heart's sigh, that " more " is hidden away, 
And man's to-morrow yet shall pine and yearn; 
He shall surmise, and he shall not discern, 

But list the lark, and want the rapturous cries 
And passioning of morning stars that sing 

Together; mark the meadow-orchis rise 

And think it freckled after an angel's wing; 

Absent desire his land, and feel this, one 

With the great drawing of the central sun. 



SPERANZA. 589 



But not to all sucli dower, for there be eyes 
Are color-blind, and souls are spirit-blind. 

Those never saw the blush in sunset skies, 

Nor the others caught a sense not made of words 
As if were spirits about, that sailed the wind 

And sank and settled on the boughs like birds. 

Yet such for aye divided from us are 
As other galaxies that seem no more 

Than a little golden millet-seed afar. 

Divided; swarming down some flat lee shore, 

Then risen, while all the air that takes no word 

Tingles, and trembles as with cries not heard. 

For they can come no nearer. There is found 
No meeting point. We have pierced the lodging- 
place 

Of stars that cluster'd witli their peers lie bound, 
Embedded thick, sunk in the seas of space, 

Fortunate orbs that know not night, for all 

Are suns; — but we have never heard that call, 

Nor learned it in our world, our citadel 
With outworks of a Tower about it traced; 

Nor why we needs must sin who would do well, 
Nor why the want of love, nor why its waste, 

Nor how by dying of One should all be sped, 

Nor where, Lord, Thou has laid up our dead. 

But Hope is ours by right, and Faith by gift. 

Though Time be as a moon upon the wane 
Who walk with Faith far up the azure lift 

Oft hear her talk of lights to wax again. 



59° 



SPERANZA. 



"If man be lost," she cries, "in this vast sea 
Of being, — lost — he would be lost with Thee 

Who for his sake once, as he hears, lost all. 

For Thou wilt find him at the end of the clays : 
Then shall the flocking souls that thicker fall 

Than snowflakes on the everlasting ways 
Be counted, gathered, claimed. — Will it be long? 
Earth has begun already her swan-song. 

Who, even that might, would dwell forever pent 
In this fair frame that doth the spirit inhearse, 

Nor at the last grow weary and content, 
Die, and break forth into the universe, 

And yet man would not all things — all — were 
new." 

Then saith the other, that one robed in blue : 

What if with subtle change God touch their eyes 
When He awakes them, — not far off, but here 

In a new earth, this : not in any wise 

Strange, but more homely sweet, more heavenly 
dear, 

Or if He roll away, as clouds disperse 

Somewhat, and lo, that other universe. 

how 'twere sweet new waked in some good hour, 
Long time to sit on a hillside green and high, 

There like a honeybee domed in a flower 
To feed unneath the azure bell o' the sky, 

Feed in the midmost home and fount of light 

Sown thick with stars at noonday as by night, 

To watch the flying faultless ones wheel down, 
Alight, and run along some ridged peak, 



SPERANZA. 591 



Their feet adust from orbs of old renown, 

Procyon or Mazzaroth, haply ; — when they 
speak 
Other -world errands wondrous, all discern 
That would be strange, there would be much to 
learn. 

Ay, and it would be sweet to share unblamed 
Love's shining truths that tell themselves in 
tears, 
Or to confess and be no more ashamed 

The wrongs that none can right through earthly 
years ; 
And seldom laugh, because the tenderness 
Calm, perfect, would be more than joy — would 
bless. 

I tell you it were sweet to have enough, 

And be enough. Among the souls forgiven 

In presence of all worlds, without rebuff 

To move, and feel the excellent safety leaven 

With peace that awe must loss and the grave sur- 
vive — 

But palpitating moons that are alive 

Nor shining fogs swept up together afar, 
Vast as a thought of God, in the firmament; 

No, and to dart as light from star to star 

Would not longtime man's yearning soul con- 
tent : 

Albeit were no more ships and no more sea, 

He would desire his new earth presently. 



59 2 SPERANZA. 

Leisure to learn it. Peoples would be here ; 

They would come on in troops, and take at will 
The forms, the faces they did use to wear 

With life's first splendors — raiment rich with 
skill 
Of broidery, carved adornments, crowns of gold; 
Still would be sweet to them the life of old. 

Then might be gatherings under golden shade, 
Where dust of water drifts from some sheer fall, 

Cooling day's ardor. There be utterance made 
Of comforted love, dear freedom after thrall, 

Large longings of the Seer, through earthly years 

An everlasting burden, but no tears. 

Egypt's adopted child might tell of lore 

They taught him underground in shrines all dim, 

And of the live tame reptile gods that wore 
Gold anklets on their feet. And after him, 

With fairest eyes e'er met of mortal ken, 

Glorious, forgiven, might speak the mother of men, 

Talk of her apples gather'd by the marge 

Of lapsing Gihon. "Thus one spoke, I stood, 

I ate." Or next the mariner-saint enlarge 
Right quaintly on his ark of gopher wood 

To wandering men through high grass meads that 
ran 

Or sailed the sea Mediterranean. 

It might be common — earth afforested 

Newly, to follow her great ones to the sun, 
When from transcendent aisles of gloom they sped 



SPERANZA. 



593 



Some work august (there would be work) now 
done. 
And list, and their high matters strive to scan 
The seekers after God, and lovers of man, 

Sitting together in amity on a hill, 

The Saint of Visions from Greek Patmos come — 
Aurelius, lordly, calm-eyed, as of will 

Austere, yet having rue on lost, lost Rome, 
And with them one who drank a fateful bowl, 
And to the unknown God trusted his soul. 

The mitred Cranmer pitied even there 

(But could it be?) for that false hand which signed 
O, all pathetic — no. But it might bear 

To soothe him marks of fire — and gladsome kind 
The man, as all of joy him well beseemed 
Who "lighted on a certain place and dreamed." 

And fair with the meaning of life their divine 
brows, 
The daughters of well-doing famed in song; 
But what ! could old-world love for child, for 
spouse, 
For land, content through lapsing eons long? 
Oh for a watchword strong to bridge the deep 
And satisfy of fulness after sleep. 

What know we ? Whispers fall, "And the last first, 
And the first last." The child before the king'.' 

The slave before that man a master erst? 

The woman before her lord? Shall glory fling 

The rolls aside — time raze out triumphs past? 

They sigh, "And the last first, and the first last." 



594 THE BEGINNING. 



Answers that other, " Lady, sister, friend, 
It is enough, for I have worshipped Life; 

With Him that is the Life man's life shall blend, 
E'en now the sacred heavens do help his strife, 

There do they knead his bread and mix his cup, 

And all the stars have leave to bear him up. 

Yet must he sink and fall away to a sleep, 
As did his Lord, His Life his worshipped 

Religion, Life. The silence may be deep, 

Life listening, watching, waiting by His dead, 

Till at the end of days they wake full fain 

Because their King, the Life, doth love and reign. 

I know the King shall come to that new earth, 
And His feet stand again as once they stood, 

In His Man's eyes will shine Time's end and worth 
The chiefest beauty and the chiefest good, 

And all shall have the all and in it bide, 

And every soul of man be satisfied. 



THE BEGINNING. 

They tell strange things of the primeval earth, 
But things that be are never strange to those 
Among them. And we know what it was like, 
Many are sure they walked in it; the proof 
This, the all gracious, all admired gift 
Called life, called world, called thought, was all as 

one, 
Nor yet divided more than that old earth 



THE BEGINNING. 595 

Among the tribes. Self was not fully come — 
Self was asleep, embedded in the whole. 

I too dwelt once in a primeval world, 
Such as they tell of, all things wonderful; 
Voices, ay visions, people grand and tall 
Thronged in it, but their talk was overhead 
And bore scant meaning, that one wanted not 
Whose thought was sight as yet unbound of words, 
This kingdom of heaven having entered through 
Being a little child. 

Such as can see, 
Why should they doubt ? The childhood of a race, 
The childhood of a soul, hath neither doubt 
Nor fear. Where all is super-natural 
The guileless heart doth feed on it, no more 
Afraid than angels are of heaven. 

Who saith 
Another life, the next one shall not have 
Another childhood growing gently thus, 
Able to bear the poignant sweetness, take 
The rich long awful measure of its peace, 
Endure the presences sublime? 

"I saw 
Once in the earth primeval, once — a face, 
A little face that yet I dream upon." 

" Of this world was it?" 

" Xot of this world — no, 
In the beginning — for methinks it was 
In the beginning, but an if you ask 
How long ago, time was not then, nor date 
For marking. It was always long ago, 
E'en from the first recalling of it, long 
And long ago. 



596 THE BEGINNING. 

And I could walk, and went, 
Led by the hand through a long mead at morn, 
Bathed in a ravishing excess of light. 
It throbbed, and as it were fresh fallen from heaven, 
Sank deep into the meadow grass. The sun 
Gave every blade a bright and a dark side, 
Glitter'd on buttercups that topped them, slipped 
To soft red puffs, by some called holy-hay. 

The wide oaks in their early green stood still 
And took delight in it. Brown specks that made 
Very sweet noises quivered in the blue; 
Then they came down and ran along the brink 
Of a long pool, and they were birds. 

The pool 
Pranked at the edges with pale peppermint, 
A rare amassment of veined cuckoo flowers 
And flags blue-green was lying below. This all 
Was sight, it condescended not to words 
Till memory kissed the charmed dream. 

The mead 
Hollowing and heaving, in the hollows fair 
With dropping roses fell away to it, 
A strange sweet place ; upon its further side 
Some people gently walking took their way 
Up to a wood beyond ; and also bells 
Sang, floated in the air, hummed — what you will." 

"Then it was Sunday?" 

" Sunday was not yet ; 
It was a holiday, for all the days 
Were holy. It was not our day of rest 
(The earth for all her rolling asks not rest, 
For she was never weary). 



THE BEGINNING. 597 

It was sweet, 
Full of dear leisure and perennial peace, 
As very old days when life went easily, 
Before mankind had lost the wise, the good 
Habit of being happy. 

For the pool 
A beauteous place it was as might be seen, 
That led one down to other meads, and had 
Clouds and another sky. T thought to go 
Deep down in it, and walk that steep clear slope. 

Then she who led me reached the brink, her foot 

Staying to talk with one who met her there. 

Here were fresh marvels, Bailing things whose vans 

Floated them on above the flowering flags. 

We moved a little onward, paused again, 

And here there was a break in these, and here 

There came the vision; for I stooped to gaze 

So far as my small height would let me — gaze 

Into that pool to see the fishes dart, 

And in a moment from her under hills 

Came forth a little child who lived down there, 

Looked up at me and smiled. We could not talk, 

But looked and loved each other. I a hand 

Held out to her, so she to me, but ah, 

She would not come. Her home, her little bed, 

"Was doubtless under that soft shining thing 

The water, and she wanted not to run 

Among red sorrel spires, and fill her hand 

In the dry warmed grass with cowslip buds. 

Awdiile our feeding hearts all satisfied, 
Took in the blue of one another's eyes, 



59 8 IN THE NURSERY. 



Two dimpled creatures, rose-lipped innocent. 

But when we fain had kissed — 0! the end came, 

For snatched aloft, held in the nurse's arms, 

She parting with her lover I was borne 

Far from that little child. 

And no one knew 

She lived down there, but only I ; and none 

Sought for her, but I yearned for her and left 

Part of myself behind, as the lambs leave 

Their wool upon a thorn." 

" And was she seen 

Never again, nor known for what she was? " 

" Never again, for Ave did leave anon 
The pasture and the pool. I know not where 
They lie, and sleep a heaven on earth, but know 
From thenceforth yearnings for a lost delight; 
On certain days I dream about her still." 



IN THE NURSERY. 

"Where do you go, Bob, when you're fast asleep?" 
"Where? well, once I went into a deep 
Mine, father told of, and a cross man said 
He'd make me help to dig, and eat black bread. 
I saw the Queen once, in her room, quite near. 
She said, ' You rude boy, Bob, how came you 
here?'" 

"Was it like mother's boudoir?" 

" Grander far, 

Gold chairs and things — all over diamonds — Ah ! " 



IN THE NURSERY. 599 

"You're sure it was the Queen?" 

"Of course, a crown 
Was on her, and a spangly purple gown." 

"I went to heaven last night." 

" Lily, no, 
How could you? " 

" Yes I did, they told me so, 
And my best doll, my favorite, with the blue 
Frock, Jasmine, I took her to heaven too." 

"What was it like?" 

"A kind of — I can't tell — 
A sort of orchard place in a long dell, 
With trees all over flowers. And there were birds 
Who could do talking, say soft pretty words; 
They let me stroke them, and I showed it all 
To Jasmine. And I heard a blue dove call, 
' Child, this is heaven.' I was not frightened 

when 
It spoke, I said ' Where are the angels then? ' " 

" Well." 

"So it said, 'Look up and you shall see.' 
There were two angels sitting in the tree, 
As tall as mother; they had long gold hair. 
They let drop down the fruit they gather'd there 
And little angels came for it — so sweet. 
Here they were beggar children in the street, 
And the dove said they had the prettiest things, 
And wore their best frocks every day." 

" And wings, 

Had they no wings?" 



600 THE BELL-BIRD. 

"0 yes, and lined with white 
Like swallow wings, so soft — so very light 
Fluttering about." 

"Well." 

" Well, I did not stay, 
So that was all." 

" They made you go away? " 
" I did not go — but — I was gone." 

"I know." 
"But it's a pity, Bob, we never go 
Together." 

" Yes, and have no dreams to tell, 
But the next day both know it all quite well." 

" And, Bob, if I could dream you came with me 
You would be there perhaps." 

" Perhaps — we'll see." 



THE BELL-BIRD. 

"Toll — 

Toll." "The bell-bird sounding far away, 

Hid in a myall grove." He raised his head, 
The bush glowed scarlet in descending day, 

A masterless wild country — and he said, 
My father (" Toll "), " Full oft by her to stray, 

As if a spirit called, have I been led ; 
Oft seems she as an echo in my soul 
(" Toll ") from my native towers by Avon. (" Toll.") 



THE BELL-BIRD. 601 

("Toll.") " Oft as in a dream I see full fain 
The bell-tower beautiful that I love well, 

A seemly cluster with her churches twain. 
I hear adown the river faint and swell 

And lift upon the air that sound again, 
It is, it is — how sweet no tongue can tell, 

For all the world-wide breadth of shining foam, 

The bells of Evesham chiming 'Home, sweet home.' 

"The mind hath mastery thus — it can defy 
The sense, and make all one as it did bear — 

Nay, I mean more ; the wraiths of sound gone by 
Rise; they are present 'neath this dome all dear. 

Oxic, sounds the bird — a pause — then doth supply 
Some ghosts of ehinies the void expectant ear; 

Do they ring hells in heaven '.' The learnedest soul 

Shall not resolve me such a question. ("'Toll."*) 

("Toll.") "Say 1 am a hoy, and fishing stand 
By Avon ("Toll") on line and rod intent. 

How glitters deep in dew the meadow land — 
What, dost thou Hit, thy ministry all spent, 

Not many days we hail such visits bland, 
Why steal so soon the rare enravishnient '.' 

Ay gone! the soft deceptive echoes mil 

Away, and faint into rem ►teness." ("Toll.") 

While thus he spoke the doom'd sun touched his bed 

In scarlet, all the palpitating air 
Still loyal waited on. He dipped his head, 

Then all was over, and the dark was there; 
And northward, lo ! a star, one likewise red 
J hit lurid, starts from out her day-long lair, 



602 THE BELL-BIRD. 

Her fellows trail behind ; she bears her part, 

The balefullest star that shines, the Scorpion's heart, 

Or thus of old men feigned, and then did fear, 

Then straight crowd forth the great ones of the sky- 
In flashing flame at strife to reach more near. 

The little children of Infinity, 
They next look down as to report them " Here," 
From deeps all thoughts despair and heights 
past high 
Speeding, not sped, no rest, no goal, no shore, 
Still to rush on till time shall be no more. 

"Loved vale of Evesham, 'tis a long farewell, 
Not laden orchards nor their April snow 

These eyes shall light upon again ; the swell 
And whisper of thy storied river know, 

Nor climb the hill where great old Mont fort fell 
In a good cause hundreds of years ago ; 

So fall'n, elect to live till life's ally, 

The river of recorded deeds, runs dry. 

" This land is very well, this air," saith he, 
" Is very well, but we want echoes here. 

Man's past to feed the air and move the sea ; 
Ages of toil make English furrows dear, 

Enriched by blood shed for his liberty, 

Sacred by love's first sigh and life's last fear, 

We come of a good nest, for it shall yearn 

Poor birds of passage, but may not return, 

tk Spread younger wings, and beat the winds afar. 
There sing more poets in that one small isle 



THE BELL-BIRD. 603 

Than all isles else can show — of such you are ; 

Remote things come to you unsought erewhile, 
Near things a long way round as by a star. 

Wild dreams!" He laughed, "A sage right 
infantile ; 
With sacred fear behold life's waste deplored, 
Undaunted by the leisure of the Lord. 

"Ay go, the island dream with eyes make good, 
Where Freedom rose, a lodestar to your race ; 

And Hope that leaning on her anchor stood 
Did smile it to her feet : a right small place. 

Call her a mother, high such motherhood, 
Home in her name and duty in her face ; 

Call her a ship, her wide anus rake the clouds, 

And every wind of God pipes in her shrouds. 

" Ay, all the more go you. But some have cried 
k The ship is breaking up' ; they watch amazed 

While urged toward the rocks by some that guide ; 
Bad steering, reckless steering, she all dazed 

Tempteth her doom ; yet this have none denied 
Ships men have wrecked and palaces have razed, 

But never was it known beneath the sun, 

They of such wreckage built a goodlier one. 

"God help old England an't be thus, nor less 
God help the world." Therewith my mother 
spake, 

" Perhaps He will ! By time, by faithlessness, 
By the world's want long in the dark awake, 

I think He must be all most due: the stress 
Of the great tide of life, sharp misery's ache, 



604 THE BELL-BIRD. 



In a recluseness of the sonl we rue 

Far off, but yet — He must be almost due. 

" God manifest again, the coming King." 
Then said my father, "I beheld erewhile, 

Sitting up dog-like to the sunrising, 
The giant doll in ruins by the Nile, 

With hints of red that yet to it doth cling, 

Fell, battered, and bewigged its cheeks were vile, 

A body of evil with its angel fled, 

Whom and his fellow fiends men worshipped. 

" The gods die not, long shrouded on their biers, 
Somewhere they live, and live in memory yet ; 

Were not the Israelites for forty years 
Hid from them in the desert to forget — 

Did they forget ? no more than their lost feres 
Sons of to-day with faces southward set, 

Who dig for buried lore long ages fled, 

And sift for it the sand and search the dead. 

" Brown Egypt gave not one great poet birth, 
But man was better than his gods, with lays 

He soothed them restless, and they zoned the earth, 
And crossed the sea ; there drank immortal praise ; 

Then from his own best self with glory and worth 
And beauty dowered he them for dateless days. 

Ever ' their sound goes forth ' from shore to shore, 

When was there known an hour that they lived more? 

" Because they are beloved and not believed, 

Admired not feared, they draw men to their feet ; 
All once, rejected, nothing now, received 



THE BELL-BIRD. 605 

Where once found wanting, now the most com- 
plete ; 
Man knows to-day though manhood stand achieved, 

His cradle-rockers made a rustling sweet ; 
That king reigns longest which did lose his crown, 
Stars that by poets shine are stars gone down. 

" Still drawn obedient to an unseen hand, 

Prom purer heights comes down the yearning 
west, 

Like to that eagle in the morning land, 
That swooping on her predatory quest, 

Did from the altar steal a smouldering brand, 
The which she bearing home it burned her nest, 

And her wide pinions of their plumes bereaven, 

Spoiled for glad spiring up the steeps of heaven. 

" I say the gods live, and that reign abhor, 

And will the nations it should dawn? Will they 

Who ride upon the perilous edge of war? 
Will such as delve for gold in this our day? 

Neither the world will, nor the age will, nor 

The soul — and what, it cometh now ? Nay, nay, 

The weighty sphere, unready for release, 

Rolls far in front of that o'ermastering peace. 

" Wait and desire it ; life waits not, free there 
To good, to evil, thy right perilous — 

All shall be fair, and yet it is not fair. 

I thank my God He takes the advantage thus ; 

He doth not greatly hide, but still declare 

Which side He is on and which He loves, to us, 

While life impartial aid to both doth lend, 

And heed not which the choice nor what the end. 



606 THE BELL-BIRD. 

" Among the few upright, to be found, 
And ever search the nobler path, my son, 

Nor say ' 'tis sweet to rind me common ground 
Too high, too good, shall leave the hours alone ' — 

Nay, though but one stood on the height renowned, 
Deny not hope or will, to be that one. 

Is it the many fall'n shall lift the land, 

The race, the age ! — Nay, 'tis the few that stand. " 

While in the lamplight hearkening I sat mute, 
Methought "how soon this fire must needs burn 
out." 

Among the passion flowers and passion fruit 
That from the wide verandah hung, misdoubt 

Was mine. " And wherefore made I thus long suit 
To leave this old white head ? His words devout, 

His blessings not to hear who loves me so — 

He that is old, right old — I will not go." 

But ere the dawn their counsels wrought with me, 
And I went forth; alas that I so went 

Under the great gum-forest canopy, 
The light on every silken filament 

Of every flower, a quivering ecstasy 

Of perfect paleness made it ; sunbeams sent 

Up to the leaves with sword-like flash endued 

Each turn of that gray drooping multitude. 

I sought to look as in the light of one 

Returned. " Will this be strange to me that day ? 
Flocks of green parrots clamorous in the sun 

Tearing out milky maize — stiff cacti gray 
As old men's beards — here stony ranges lone, 



THE BELL-BIRD. 607 

There dust of mighty flocks upon their way 
To water, cloudlike on the bush afar, 
Like smoke that hangs where old-world cities are. 

'• Is it not made man's last endowment here 

To find a beauty in the wilderness ; 
Feel the lorn moor above his pastures dear, 

Mountains that may not house and will not bless 
To draw him even to death ? He must insphere 

His spirit in the open, so doth less 
Desire his feres, and more that unvex'd wold 
And fine afforested hills, his dower of old. 

"But shall we lose again that new-found sense 
Which sees the earth less for our tillage fair ? 

Oh, let her speak with her best eloquence 
To me, but not her first and her right rare 

Can equal what I may not take from hence. 
The gems are left : it is not otherwhere 

The wild Nepean cleaves her matchless way, 

Nor Sydney harbor shall outdo the day. 

" Adding to day this — that she lighteth it." 

But I beheld again, and as must be 
With a world-record b}^ a spirit writ, 

It was more beautiful than memory, 
Than hope was more complete. 

Tall brigs did sit 

Each in her berth the pure flood placidly, 
Their topsails drooping 'neath the vast blue dome 
Listless, as waiting to be sheeted home. 

And the great ships with pulse-like throbbing clear, 
Majestical of mien did take their way 



608 THE BELL-BIRD. 

Like living creatures from some grander sphere, 
That having boarded ours thought good to stay, 

Albeit enslaved. They most divided here 

From God's great art and all his works in clay, 

In that their beauty lacks, though fair it shows 

That divine waste of beauty only He bestows. 

The day was young, scarce out the harbor lights 
That morn I sailed : low sun-rays tremulous 

On golden loops sped outward. Yachts in flights 
Flutter'd the water air-like clear, while thus 

It crept for shade among brown rocky bights 
With cassia crowned and palms diaphanous, 

And boughs ripe fruitage dropping fitfully, 

That on the shining ebb went out to sea. 

" Home," saith the man self -banished, " my son 
Shall now go home." Therewith he sendeth him 

Abroad, and knows it not. but thence is won, 

Eescued, the son's true home. His mind doth 
limn 

Beautiful pictures of it, there is none 

So dear, a new thought shines erewhile but dim, 

" That was my -home, a land past all compare, 

Life, and the poetry of life, are there." 

But no such thought drew near to me that day ; 

All the new worlds flock forth to greet the old, 
All the young souls bow down to own its sway, 

Enamoured of strange richness manifold ; 
Not to be stored, albeit they seek for aye, 

Besieging it for its own life to hold, 
E'en as Al Mamoun fain for treasures hid, 
Stormed with an host th.' inviolate pyramid, 



THE BELL-BIRD. 609 

And went back foiled but wise to walled Bagdad. 

So I, so all. The treasure sought not found, 
But some divine tears found to superadd 

Themselves to a long story. The great round 
Of yesterdays, their pathos sweet as sad, 

Found to be only as to-day, close bound 
With us, we hope some good thing yet to know, 
But God is not in haste, while the lambs grow 

The Shepherd leadeth softly. It is great 
The journey, and the flock forgets at last 

(Earth ever working to obliterate 
The landmarks) when it halted, where it passed; 

And words confuse, and time doth ruinate, 
And memory fail to hold a theme so vast; 

There is request for light, bat the flock feeds, 

And slowly ever on the Shepherd leads. 

" Home," quoth my father, and a glassy sea 
Made for the stars a mirror of its breast, 

While southing, peimon-like, in bravery 

Of long-drawn gold they trembled to their rest. 

Strange the first night and morn, when Destiny 
Spread out to float on, all the mind oppressed ; 

Strange on their outer roof to speed forth thus, 

And know the uncouth sea-beasts stared up at us. 

But yet more strange the nights of falling rain, 
That splashed without — a sea-coal lire within ; 

Life's old things gone astern, the mind's disdain, 
For murmurous London makes soft rhythmic din. 

All courtier thoughts that wait on words would fain 
Express that sound. The words are not to win 



6 jo THE BELL-BIRD. 

Till poet made, but mighty, yet so mild 
Shall be as cooing of a cradle-child. 

Sensation like a piercing arrow flies, 

Daily out-going thought. This Ad am hood, 

This weltering river of mankind that hies 
Adown the street; it cannot be withstood. 

The richest mundane miles not otherwise 
Than by a symbol keep possession good, 

Mere symbol of division, and they hold 

The clear pane sacred, the unminted gold 

And wild outpouring of all wealth not less. 

Why this ? A million strong the multitude, 
And safe, far safer than our wilderness 

The walls ; for them it daunts with right at feud, 
Itself declares for law ; yet sore the stress 

On steeps of life : what power to ban and bless ; 
Saintly denial, waste inglorious, 
Desperate want, and riches fabulous. 

Of souls what beautiful embodiment 

For some; for some what homely housing writ; 
What keen-eyed men who beggared of content 

Eat bread well earned as they had stolen it ; 
What flutterers after joy that forward went, 

And left them in the rear unqueened, unfit 
For joy, with light that faints in stragglings drear 
Of all things good the most awanting here. 

Some in the welter of this surging tide 

Move like the mystic lamps, the Spirits Seven, 

Their burning love runs kindling far and wide, 
That fire they needed not to steal from heaven, 



THE BELL-BIRD . 6n 

? Twas a free gift flung down with them to bide, 

And be a comfort for the hearts bereaven, 
A warmth, a glow, to make the failing store 
And parsimony of emotion more. 

What glorious dreams in that find harborage, 
The phantom of a crime stalks this beside, 

And those might well have writ on some past page, 
In such an hour, of such a year, we — died, 

Put out our souls, took the mean way, false wage, 
Course cowardly ; and if we be denied 

The life once loved, we cannot alway rue 

The loss ; let be : what vails so sore ado ? 

And faces pass of such as give consent 

To live because 'tis not worth while to die ; 

This never knew the awful tremble meiit 

When some great fear sprang forward suddenly, 

Its other name being hope — and there forth went 
As both confronted him a rueful cry 

From the heart's core, one urging him to dare, 

" Now ! now ! Leap now." The other, " Stand, 
forbear." 

A nation reared in brick, how shall this be ? 

Nor by excess of life death overtake. 
To die in brick of brick her destiny, 

And as the hamadryad eats the snake 
His wife, and then the snake his son, so 'she 

Air not enough, "though every one doth take 
A little, " water scant, a plague of gold, 
Light out of date — a multitude born old. 

And then a three-day siege might be the end; 
E'en now the rays get muddied struggling down 



612 THE BELL-BIRD. 

Through heaven's vasty lofts, and still extend 
The miles of brick and none forbid, and none 

Forbode ; a great world-wonder that doth send 
High fame abroad, and fear no setting sun, 

But helpless she through wealth that flouts the day 

And through her little children, even as they. 

But forth of London, and all visions dear 

To eastern poets of a watered land 
Are made the commonplace of nature here, 

Sweet rivers always full, and always bland. 
Beautiful, beautiful ! What runlets clear 

Twinkle among the grass. On every hand 
Fall in the common talk from lips around 
The old names of old towns and famous ground. 

It is not likeness only charms the sense, 
Not difference only sets the mind aglow, 

It is the likeness in the difference, 

Familiar language spoken on the snow, 

To have the Perfect in the Present tense, 

To hear the ploughboy whistling, and to know, 

It smacks of the wild bush, that tune — 'Tis ours, 

And look ! the bank is pale with primrose flowers, 

What veils of tender mist make soft the lea, 
What bloom of air the height; no veils confer 

On warring thought or softness or degree 

Or rest. Still falling, conquering, strife and stir, 

For this religion pays indemnity. 

She pays her enemies for conquering her, 

And then her friends ; while ever, and in vain 

Lots for a seamless coat are cast again 



THE BELL-BIRD. 613 



Whose it shall be ; unless it shall endow 
Thousands of thousands it can fall to none, 

But faith and hope are not so simple now, 
As in the year of our redemption — One. 

The pencil of pure light must disallow 

Its name and scattering, many hues put on, 

And faith and hope low in the valley fell, 

There it is well with them, 'tis very well. 

The land is full of vision, voices call. 

Can spirits cast a shadow ? Ay, I trow 
Past is not done, and over is not all, 

Opinion dies to live and wanes to grow, 
The gossamer of thought doth filmlike fall, 

On fallows after dawn make shimmering show, 
And with old arrow-heads, her earliest prize, 
Mix learning's latest guess and last surmise. 

There heard I pipes of fame, saw wrens " about 
That time when kings go forth to battle " dart, 

Full valorous atoms pierced with song, and stout 
To dare, and downy clad*; I shared the smart 

Of grieved cushats, bloom of love, devout 

Beyond man's thought of it. Old song my heart 

Rejoiced, but mine own fore-elder's' ways 

To look on, and their fashions of past days. 

The ponderous craft of arms I craved to see, 

Knights, burghers, filtering through those gates 
ajar, 

Their age of serfdom with my spirit free ; 
We cannot all have wisdom ; some there are 

Believe a star doth rule their destiny, 
And yet they think to overreach the star, 



614 THE BELL-BIRD. 

For thought can weld together things apart, 
And contraries find meeting in the heart. 

In the deep dust at Suez without sound 
I saw the Arab children walk at eve, 

Their dark untroubled eyes upon the ground, 
A part of Time's grave quiet. I receive 

Since then a sense, as nature might have found 
Love kin to man's that with the past doth grieve ; 

And lets on waste and dust of ages full 

Tier tender silences that mean it all. 

We have it of her, with her ; it were ill 

For men, if thought were widowed of the world, 

Or the world beggared of her sons, for still 
A crowned sphere with many gems impearled 

She rolls because of them. We lend her will 
And she yields love. The past shall not be hurled 

In the abhorred limbo while the twain, 

Mother and son, hold partnership and reign. 

She hangs out omens, ami doth burdens dree. 

Is she in league with heaven ? That knows but 
One. 
For man is not,' and yet his work we see 

Full of unconscious omen darkly done. 
I saw the ring-stone wrought at Avebury 

To frame the face of the midwinter sun, 
Good luck that hour they thought from him forth 

smiled, 
At midwinter the Sun did rise — the Child. 

Still would the world divine though man forbore, 
And what is beauty but an omen? — what 



THE BELL-BIRD. 615 



But life's deep divination cast before, 

Omen of coming love ? Hard were man's lot, 

With love and toil together at his door, 
But all-convincing eyes hath beanty got; 

His love is beautiful, and he shall sue. 

Toil for her sake is sweet, the omen true. 

Love, love, and come it must, then life is found 
Beforehand that was whole and fronting care, 

A torn and broken half in durance bound 

That mourns and makes request for its right fair 

Remainder, with forlorn eyes cast around 
To search for what is lost, that unaware 

With not an hour's forebodement makes the day 

From henceforth less or more for ever and aye. 

Her name — my love's — I knew it not ; who says 
Of vagrant doubt for such a cause that stirs 

His fancy shall nor pay arrearages 

To all sweet names that might perhaps be hers ? 

The doubts of love are powers. His heart obeys, 
The world is in them, still to love defers, 

Will play with him for love, but when 't begins 

The play is high, and the world always wins. 

For 'tis the maiden's world, and his no more. 

Now thus it was : with new-found kin flew by 
The temperate summer ; every wheatfield wore 

Its gold, from house to house in ardency 
Of heart for what they showed I westward bore — 

My mother's land, her native hills drew nigh ; 
I was — how green, how good old earth can be — 
Beholden to that land for teaching me. 



616 THE BELL-BIRD. 

An 1 parted from my fellows, and went on 

To feel the spiritual sadness spread 
Adown long pastoral hollows. And anon 

Did words recur in far remoteness said : 
" See the deep vale ere dews are dried and gone, 

Where my so happy life in peace I led, 
And the great shadow of the Beacon lies — 
See little Ledbury trending up the rise, 

" With peaked houses and high market hall — 
An oak each pillar — reared in the old days." 

And here was little Ledbury, quaint withal, 
The forest felled, her lair and sheltering place 

She long time left in age pathetical. 

" Great oaks," methought, as I drew near to gaze, 

" Were but of small account when these came down, 

Drawn rough-hewn in to serve the tree-girt town. 

" And thus and thus of it will question be 
The other side the world." I paused awhile 

To mark. The old hall standeth utterly 
Without or floor or side, a comely pile, 

A house on pillars, and by destiny 

Drawn under its deep roof I saw a file 

Of children slowly through their way make good, 

And lifted up mine eyes — and there — she stood. 

She was so stately that her youthful grace 
Drew out, it seemed, my soul unto the air, 

Astonished out of breathing by her face 
So fain to nest itself in nut-brown hair 

Lying loose about her throat. But that old place 
Proved sacred, she just fully grown too fair 



THE BELL-BIRD. 617 



For such a thought. The dimples that she had ! 
She was so truly sweet that it was sad. 

I was all hers. That moment gave her power — 
And whom, nay what she was, I scarce might 
know, 

But felt I had been born for that good hour. 
The perfect creature did not move, but so 

As if ordained to claim all grace for dower, 
She leaned against the pillar, and below 

Three almost babes, her care, she watched the while 

With downcast lashes and a musing smile. 

I had been 'ware without a rustic treat, 

Wagons bedecked with greenery stood anigh, 

A swarm of children in the cheerful street 
With girls to marshal them; but all went by 

And none I noted save this only sweet : 

Too young her charge more venturous sport to try, 

With whirling baubles still they played content, 

And softly rose their lisping babblement. 

" what a pause ! to be so near, to mark 
The locket rise and sink upon her breast ; 

The shadow of the lashes lieth dark 

Upon her cheek. fleeting time, rest ! 

A slant ray finds the gold, and with a spark 
And flash it answers, now shall be the best. 

Her eyes she raises, sets their light on mine, 

They do not flash nor sparkle — no — but shine." 

As I for very hopelessness made bold 

Did off my hat ere time there was for thought, 



618 THE BELL-BIRD. 

She with a gracious sweetness, calm, not cold, 
Acknowledged me, but brought my chance to 
naught. 

" This vale of imperfection doth not hold 
A lovelier bud among its loveliest wrought ! 

She turns," methought " O do not quite forget 

To me remains forever — that we met." 

And straightway I went forth, I could no less, 

Another light unwot of fall'n on me, 
And rare elation and high happiness, 

Some mighty power set hands of mastery 
Among my heartstrings, and they did confess 

With wild throbs inly sweet, that minstrelsy 
A nightingale might dream so rich a strain, 
And pine to change her song for sleep again. 

The harp thrilled ever: O with what a round 
And series of rich pangs fled forth each note 

Oracular, that I had found, had found 

(Head waters of old Nile held less remote) 

Golden Dorado, dearest, most renowned ; 
But when as 'twere a sigh did overfloat, 

Shaping " how long, not long shall this endure, 

Au jour le jour" methought, " Au jour le jour " 

The minutes of that hour my heart knew well 
Were like the fabled pint of golden grain, 

Each to be counted, paid for, till one fell, 
Grew, shot up to another world amain, 

And he who dropped might climb it, there to dwell. 
I too, I clomb another world full fain, 

But was she there ? what would be the end, 

Might she nor there appear, nor I descend ? 



THE BELL-BIRD. 619 

All graceful as a palm the maiden stood ; 

Men say the palm of palms in tropic Isles 
Doth languish in her deep primeval wood, 

And want the voice of man, his home, his smiles, 
Nor llourish but in his dear neighborhood ; 

She too shall want a voice that reconciles, 
A smile that charms — how sweet, would heaven so 

please — 
To plant her 11 1 my door over far seas. 

1 paced without, nor ever liege in truth 

His sovran lady watched with more grave eyes 

Of reverence, and she nothing ware forsooth, 
Did standing charm the boo] with new surprise, 

Moving flow on a dimpled dream of youth. 
I k! look! a sunbeam 011 her. Ay, but Lies 

Tin- shade more Bweetly now she passeth through 

To join her fellow maids returned anew. 

1 saw (myself to bide unmarked intent ) 
Their youthful ease ami pretty airs sedate 

They are so good, they are so innocent. 

Those Islanders, they learn their part so late, 

Of life's demand right careless, dwell content 
Till the first love's first kiss shall consecrate 

Their future to a world that can but be 

By their sweet martyrdom and ministry. 

Most happy of God's creatures. Afterward 
More than all women married thou wilt be, 

E'en to the soul. One glance desired afford, 

More than knight's service might'st thou ask of 
me. 



620 THE BELL-BIRD. 



Not any chance is mine, not the best word, , 

No, nor the salt of life withouten thee. 
Must this all end, is my day so soon o'er ? 
Untroubled violet eyes, look once, — once more. 

No, not a glance : the low sun lay and burned, 
Now din of drum and cry of fife withal, 

Blithe teachers mustering frolic swarms returned, 
And new-world ways in that old market hall, 

Sweet girls, fair women, how my whole heart 
yearned 
Her to draw near who made my festival. 

With others closing round, time speeding on, 

How soon she would be gone, she would be gone ! 

Ay, but I thought to track the rustic wains, 
Their goal desired to note, but not anigh, 

They creaking down long hop ycrested lanes 
'Neath the abiding flush of that north sky. 

I ran, my horse I fetched, but fate ordains 

Love shall breed laughter when the unloving spy. 

As I drew rein to watch the gathered crowd, 

With sudden mirth an old wife laughed aloud. 

Her cheeks like winter apples red of hue, 

Her glance aside. To whom her speech — to 
me? 
" I know the thing you go about to do — 

The lady— " " What ! the lady — " " Sir," 
saith she, 
"(I thank you kindly, sir), I tell you true 

She's gone," and " here's a coil " niethought " will 
be." 



THE BELL-BIRD. 621 

" Gone — where ? " " 'Tis past my wit forsooth to 

say 
If they went Malvern way or Hereford way. 

" A carriage took her up — where three roads meet 
They needs must pass ; you may overtake it yet." 

And " Oyez, Oyez " peals adown the street, 
" Lost, lost, a golden heart with pearls beset." 

" I know her, sir ? — not I. To help this treat, 
Many strange ladies from the country met." 

heart beset with pearls ! my hope was crost. 

" Farewell, good dame. Lost ! oh, my lady lost." 

And "Oyez, Oyez" following after me 

On my great errand to the sundown went. 

Lost, lost, and lost, wlienas the cross road flee 
Up tumbled hills, on each for eyes attent 

A carriage creepeth. 

"Though in neither she, 
I ne'er shall know life's worst impoverishment, 

An empty heart. No time, I stake my all, 

To right ! and chase the rose-red evenfall. 

"Fly up, good steed, fly on. Take the sharp rise 
As 'twere a plain. A lady sits ; but one. 

So fast the pace she turns in startled wise, 
She sets her gaze on mine and all is done. 

'Persian Koxana' might have raised such eyes 
When Alexander sought her. Now the sun 

Dips, and my day is over; turn and fleet 

The world fast flies, again do three roads meet." 

1 took the left, and for some cause unknown 
Full fraught of hope and joy the way pursued, 



622 THE BELL-BIRD. 

Yet chose strong reasons speeding up alone 
To fortify me 'gainst a shock more rude. 

E'en so the diver carrieth down a stone 
In hand, lest he float up before he would, 

And end his walk upon the rich sea-floor, 

Those pearls he failed to grasp never to look on 
more. 

Then as the low moon heaveth waxen white, 

The carriage, and it turns into a gate. 
Within sit three in pale pathetic light. 

surely one of these my love, my fate. 
But ere I pass they wind away from sight. 

Then cottage casements glimmer. All elate 
I cross a green, there yawns with opened latch 
A village hostel capped in comely thatch. 

" The same world made for all is made for each. 

To match a heart's magnificence of hope, 
How shall good reason best high action teach 

To win of custom, and with home to cope ? 
How warrantably may he hope to win 

A star, that wants it? Shall he lie and grope ? 
No, truly. — I will see her ; tell my tale, 
See her this once, — and if I fail — I fail." 

Thus with myself I spoke. A rough brick floor 

Made the place homely ; I would rest me there. 
But how to sleep ? Forth of the unlocked door 

1 passed at midnight, lustreless white air 
Made strange the hour, that ecstasy not o'er 

I moved among the shadows, all my care — 
Counted a shadow — her drawn near to bless, 
Impassioned out of fear, rapt, motionless. 



THE BELL-BIRD. 623 

Now a long pool and water-liens at rest 
(As doughty seafolk dusk, at Malabar), 

A few pale stars lie trembling on its breast. 
Hath the Most High of all His host afar 

One most supremely beautiful, one best, 
Dearest of all the flock, one favorite star ? 

His Image given, in part the children know 

They love one first and best. It may be so. 

Now a long hedge ; here dream the woolly folk ; 

A majesty of silence is about. 
Transparent mist rolls off the pool like smoke, 

And Time is in his trance and night devout. 
Now the still house. an I knew she woke 

I could not look, the sacred moon sheds out 
So many blessings on her rooftree low, 
Each more pathetic that she naught doth know. 

I would not love a little, nor my start 

Make with the multitude that love and cease. 

He gives too much that giveth half a heart, 
Too much for liberty, too much for peace. 

Let me the first and best and highest impart, 
The whole of it, and heaven the whole increase ! 

For that were not too much. 

(In the moon's wake 

How the grass glitters, for her sweetest sake.) 

I would toward her walk the silver floors. 

Love loathes an average — all extreme things deal 
To love — sea-deep and dazzling height for stores. 

There are on Fortune's errant foot can steal, 
Can guide her blindfold in at their own doors, 

Or dance elate upon her slippery wheel. 



624 THE BELL-BIRD. 



Courage ! there are 'gainst hope can still advance, 
Dowered with a sane, a wise extravagance. 

A song 

To one a-dreaming : when the dew 
Falls, 'tis a time for rest ; and when the bird 

Calls, 'tis a time to wake, to wake for you. 
A long-waking, aye, waking till a word 

Come from her coral mouth to be the true 
Sum of all good heart wanted, ear hath heard. 

Yet if, alas ! might love thy dolor be, 
Dream, dear heart dear, and do not dream of me. 

I sing 

To one awakened, when the heart 

Cries 'tis a day for thought, and when the soul 
Sighs choose thy part, choose thy part, thy part. 

I bring to one beloved, bring my whole 
Store, make in loving, make O make mine art 

More. Yet I ask no, ask no wished goal. 



But this — if loving might thy dolor be, 
Wake, my lady loved, and love not me. 

"That which the many win, love's niggard sum, 
I will not, if love's all be left behind. 

That which I am I cannot unbecome, 
My past not unpossess, nor future blind. 

Let me all risk, and leave the deep heart dumb 
Forever, if that maiden sits enshrined 

The saint of one more happy. She is she. 

There is none other. Give her then to me. 



THE BELL-BIRD. 625 

" Or else to be the better for her face 

Beholding it no more!" Then all night through 
The shadow moves with infinite dark grace. 

The light is on her windows, and the dew 
Comforts the world and me, till in my place 

At moonsetting, when stars flash out to view, 
Comes 'neath the cedar boughs a great repose, 
The peace of one renouncing, and then a doze. 

There was no dream, yet waxed a sense in me 
Asleep, that patience was the better way, 

Appeasement for a want that needs must be, 
Grew as the dominant mind forbore its sway 

Till whistling sweet stirred in the cedar tree — 
1 started — woke — it was the dawn of day." 

That was the end. " Slow solemn growth of light, 

Come what come will, remains to me this night." 

It was the end, with dew ordained to melt, 
How easily was learned, how -all too soon 

Not there, not thereabout such maiden dwelt. 
What was it promised me so fair a boon ? 

Heart-hope is not less vain because heart-felt, 
Gone forth once more in search of her at noon 

Through the sweet country side on hill, on plain, 

I sought and sought many long days in vain. 

To Malvern next, with feathery woodland hung, 
Whereto old Piers the Plowman came to teach, 

On her green vasty hills the lay was sung, 
He too, it may be, lisping in his speech, 

" To make the English sweet upon his tongue." 
How many maidens beautiful, and each 



626 THE BELL-BIRD. 

Might him delight, that loved no other fair; 

But Malvern blessed not ine, — she was not there. 

Then to that town, but still my fate the same, 
Crowned with old works that her right well be- 
seem, 

To gaze upon her field of ancient fame 

And muse on the sad thrall's most piteous dream, 

By whom a " shadow like an angel came," 
Crying out on Clarence, its wild eyes agleam, 

Accusing echoes here still falter and flee, 

" That stabbed me on the field by Tewkesbury." 

It nothing 'vailed that yet I sought and sought, 
Part of my very self was left behind, 

Till risen in wrath against the o'ermastering thought, 
" Let me be thankful," quoth the better mind, 

Thankful for her, though utterly to naught 
She brings my heart's cry, and I live to find 

A new self of the old self exigent 

In the light of my divining discontent. 

The picture of a maiden bidding " Arise, 
I am the Art of God. He shows by me 

His great idea, so well as sin-stained eyes 
Love aidant can behold it." 

Is this she ? 

Or is it mine own love for her supplies 

The meaning and the power ? Howe'er this be, 

She is the interpreter by whom most near 

Man's soul is drawn to beauty and pureness here. 

The sweet idea, invisible hitherto, 
Is in her face, unconscious delegate ; 



THE BELL-BIRD. 627 

That thing she wots not of ordained to do : 
But also it shall be her votary's fate, 

Through her his early days of ease to eschew, 
Struggle with life and prove its weary weight. 

All the great storms that rising rend the soul, 

Are life in little, imaging the whole. 

Ay, so as life is, love is, in their ken 

Stars, infant yet, both thought to grasp, to keep, 
Then came the morn of passionate splendor, when 

So sweet the light, none but for bliss could weep, 
And then the strife, the toil ; but we are men, 

Strong, brave to battle with the stormy deep ; 
Then fear — and then renunciation — then 
Appeals unto the Infinite Pity — and sleep. 

But after life the sleep is long. Not so 

With love. Love buried lieth not straight, not 
still, 

Love starts, and after lull awakes to know 

All the deep things again. And next his will, 

That dearest pang is, never to forego. 

He would all service, hardship, fret fulfil. 

Unhappy love ! and I of that great host 

Unhappy love who cry, unhappy most. 

Because renunciation was so short, 

The starved heart so easily awaked ; 
A dream could do it, a bud, a bird, a thought, 

But I betook me with that want which ached 
To neighbor lands where strangeness with me 
wrought. 

The old work was so hale, its fitness slaked 



628 THE BELL-BIRD. 

Soul-thirst for truth. " I knew not doubt nor 

fear," 
Its language, " war or worship, sure sincere." 

Then where by Art the high did best translate 
Life's infinite pathos to the soul, set down 

Beauty and mystery, that imperious hate 

On its best braveness doth and sainthood frown, 

Nay more the Master's manifest pity — " wait, 
Behold the palmgrove and the promised crown, 

He surfers with thee, for thee. — Lo the Child ! 

Comfort thy heart ; He certainly so smiled." 

Thus love and I wore through the winter time. 

Then saw her demon blush Vesuvius try, 
Then evil ghosts white from the awful prime, 

Thrust up sharp peaks to tear the tender sky. 
" No more to do but hear that English chime," 

I to a kinsman wrote. He made reply, 
" As home I bring my girl and boy full soon, 
I pass through Evesham, — meet me there at noon. 

" The bells your father loved you needs must hear, 
Seek Oxford next with me," and told the day. 

" Upon the bridge I'll meet you. What ! how dear 
Soever was a dream, shall it bear sway 

To mar the waking ? " 

I set forth, drew near, 
Beheld a goodly tower, twin churches gray, 

Evesham. The bridge, and noon. I nothing knew 

"What to my heart that fateful chime would do. 

Eor suddenly the sweet bells overcame 

A world unsouled; did all with man endow; 



THE BELL-BIRD. 629 

His yearning almost tell that passeth name 

And said they were full old, and they were now 

And should be ; and their sighing upon the same 
For our poor sake that pass they did avow, 

While on clear Avon flowed like man's short day 

The shining river of life lapsing away. 

The stroke of noon. The bell-bird ! yes and no. 

Winds of remembrance swept as over the foam 
Of anti-natal shores. At home is it so, 

My country folk? Ay, 'neath this pale blue 
dome, 
Many of you in the moss lie low — lie low. 

Ah ! since I have not her, give me too, home. 
A footstep near ! I turned ; past likelihood, 
Past hope, before me on the bridge — she stood. 

A rosy urchin had her hand; this cried, 

tk We think you are our cousin — yes, you are ; 

I said so to Estelle." The violet-eyed, 

" If this be Geoffrey ? " asked ; and as from f#r 

A doubt came floating up ; but she denied 

Her thought, yet blushed. beautiful ! my 
Star! 

Then, with the lifting of my hat, each wore 

That look which owned to each, "We have met 
before." 

Then was the strangest bliss in life made mine ; 

I saw the almost worshipped — all remote ; 
The Star so high above that used to shine, 

Translated from the void where it did float, 
And brought into relation with the fine 

Charities earth hath grown. A great joy smote 



630 THE BELL-BIRD. 

Me silent, and the child atween us tway, 
We watched the lucent river stealing away. 

While her deep eyes- down on the ripple fell, 
Qnoth the small imp, " How fast you go and go, 

You Avon. Does it wish to stop, Estelle, 

And hear the clock, and see the orchards blow ? 

It does not care ! Not when the old big bell 

Makes a great buzzing noise ? — Who told you 
so?" 

And then to me, "I like to hear it hum. 

Why do you think that father could not come ? 

"Estelle forgot her violin. And he, 

then he said : 'How careless, child, of you; 
I must send on for it. 'T would pity be 

If that were lost.' 

I want to learn it too ; 
And when I'm nine I shall." 

Then turning, she 

Lpt her sweet eyes unveil them to my view ; 
Her stately grace outmatched my dream of old, 
But ah ! the smile dull memory had not told. 

My kinsman next, with care-worn kindly brow. 
" Well, father," quoth the imp, " we've done our 
part. 
We found him." 

And she, wholly girlish now, 
Laid her young hand on his with lovely art 
And sweet excuses. ! I made my vow 

1 would all dare, such life did warm my heart ; 
We journeyed, all the air with scents of price 
Was laden, and the goal was Paradise. 



THE BELL-BIRD. 631 

When that the Moors betook them to their sand, 
Their domination over in fair Spain, 

Each locked, men say, his door in that loved, land, 
And took the key in hope to come again. 

On Moorish walls yet hung, long dust each hand, 
The keys, but not the might to use, remain; 

Is there such house in some blest land for me ? 

I can, I will, I do reach down the key. 

A country conquered oft, and long before, 

Of generations aye ordained to win; 
If mine the power, I will unlock the door. 

Enter, light, I bear a sunbeam in. 
What, did the crescent wane ! Yet man is more, 

And love achieves because to heaven akin. 
O life ! to hear again that wandering bell, 
And hear it at thy feet, Estelle, Estelle. 

Full oft I want the sacred throated bird, 

Over our limitless waste of light which spoke 

The spirit of the call my fathers heard, 

Saying " Let us pray," and old world echoes woke 

Ethereal minster bells that still averr'd, 

And with their phantom notes the all silence broke. 

" The fanes are far, but whom they shrined is near. 

Thy God, the Island God, is here, is here." 

To serve ; to serve a thought, and serve apart 
To meet; a few short days, a maiden won. 

" Ah, sweet, sweet home, I must divide my heart, 
Betaking me to countries of the sun." 



632 THE BELL-BIRD. 

t( What straight-hung leaves, what rays that twinkle 

and dart, 
Make me to like them." 

" Love, it shall be done." 

" What weird dawn-fire across the wide hill flies." 
"It is the flame-tree's challenge to yon scarlet 
skies." 

" Hark, hark, hark ! the spirit of a bell ! 

What would it ? (" Toll.") An air-hung sacred 
call, 
Athwart the forest shade it strangely fell " — 
" Toll " — " Toll." 

The longed-for voice, but ah, withal 
I felt, I knew, it was my father's knell 

That touched and could the over-sense enthral. 
Perfect his peace, a whispering pure and deep 
As theirs who 'neath his native towers by Avon 
sleep. 

If love and death are ever reconciled, 

'Tis when the old lie down for the great rest. 

We rode across the bush, a sylvan wild 

That was an almost world, whose calm oppressed 

With audible silence ; and great hills misled 
Rose out as from a sea. Consoling, blest 

And blessing spoke she, and the reedflower spread, 

And tall rock lilies towered above her head. 



Sweet is the light aneath our matchless blue, 
The shade below yon passion plant that lies, 



ON A PICTURE. 6 33 

And very sweet is love, and sweet are you, 
My little children dear, with violet eyes, 

And sweet about the dawn to hear anew 
The sacred monotone of peace arise. 

Love, 'tis thy welcome from the air-hung bell, 

Congratulant and clear, Estelle, Estelle. 



LOSS AND WASTE. 

Up to far Osteroe and Suderoe 

The deep sea-floor lies strewn with Spanish 
wrecks, 
O'er minted gold the fair-haired fishers go, 

O'er sunken bravery of high carved decks. 

In earlier days great Carthage suffered bale 

(All her waste works choke under sandy shoals); 

And reckless hands tore down the temple veil ; 
And Omar burned the Alexandrian rolls. 

The Old World arts men suffered not to last, 
Flung down they trampled lie and sunk from view, 

He lets wild forest for these ages past 
Grow over the lost cities of the New. 

for a life that shall not be refused 

To see the lost things found, and waste things used. 



ON A PICTURE. 

As a forlorn soul waiting by the Styx 
Dimly expectant of lands yet more dim, 



634 THE SLEEP OF STGISMUND. 

Might peer afraid where shadows change and mix 
Till the dark ferryman shall come for him ; 

And past all hope a long ray in his sight, 

Fall'n trickling down the steep crag Hades-black 

Reveals an upward path to life and light, 
Nor any let but he should mount that track : 

As with the sudden shock of joy amazed, 
He might a motionless sweet moment stand, 

So doth that mortal lover, silent, dazed, 

For hope had died and loss was near at hand. 

" Wilt thou ? " his quest. Unready but for " Nay," 
He stands at fault for joy, she whispering " Ay." 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

The doom'd king pacing all night through the 

windy fallow. 
" Let me alone, mine enemy, let me alone," 
Never a Christian bell that dire thick gloom to 

hallow, 
Or guide him, shelterless, succorless, thrust from 

his own. 

Foul spirits riding the wind do flout at him friend- 
less, 

The rain and the storm on his head beat ever at 
will; 

His weird is on him to grope in the dark with end- 
less 

Weariful feet for a goal that shifteth still. 



THE SLEEP OF STGISMUND. 635 

A sleuth-hound baying ! The sleuth-hound bayeth 

behind him, 
His head he flying and stumbling turns back to the 

sound, 
Whom doth the sleuth-hound follow ? What if it 

find him ; 
Up ! for the scent lieth thick, up from the level 

ground. 

Up, on, he must on, to follow his weird essaying, 
Lo you, a flood from the crag cometh raging past, 
He falls, he fights in the water, no stop, no stay- 
ing. 
Soon the king's head goes under, the weird is dreed 
at last. 



" Wake, king, the best star worn 
In the crown of night, forlorn 
Blinks a fine white point — 'tis morn." 
Soft ! The queen's voice, fair is she, 
" Wake ! " He waketh, living, free, 
In the chamber of arras lieth he. 
Delicate dim shadows yield 
Silken curtains overhead 
All abloom with work of neeld, 
Martagon and milleflower spread. 
On the wall his golden shield, 
Dinted deep in battle-field, 
When the host o' the Khalif fled. 
Gold to gold ! Long sunbeams flit 
Upward, tremble and break on it. 
" Ay, 'tis over, all things writ 



636 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

Of my sleep shall end awake, 

Now is joy, and all its bane 

The dark shadow of after pain." 

Then the queen saith, " Nay, but break 

Unto me for dear love's sake 

This thy matter. Thou hast been 

In great bitterness I ween 

All the night-time." But " My queen, 

Life, love, lady, rest content, 

111 dreams fly, the night is spent, 

Good day draweth on. Lament 

'Vaileth not, — yea peace," quoth he; 

" Sith this thing no better may be, 

Best were held 'twixt thee and me." 

Then the fair queen, " Even so 

As thou wilt, king, but know 

Mickie nights have wrought thee woe, 

Yet the last was troubled sore 

Above all that went before." 

Quoth the king, " No more, no more." 

Then he riseth, pale of blee, 

As one spent, and utterly 

Master'd of dark destiny. 

11. 

Comes a day for glory famed 
Tidings brought, the enemy shamed, 
Fallen ; now is peace proclaimed. 
And a swarm of bells on high 
Make their sweet din scale the sky, 
" Hail ! hail ! hail ! " the people cry 
To the king his queen beside, 
And the knights in armor ride 
After until eventide. 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 637 

in. 

All things great may life afford, 

Praise, power, love, high pomp, fair gaud, 

Till the banquet be toward 

Hath this king. Then day takes flight, 

Sinketh sun and fadeth light, 

Late he coucheth — Night: 'tis night. 

The proud king heading the host on his red-roan 
charger. 
Dust. On a thicket of spears glares the Syrian 
sun, 
The Saracens swarm to the onset, larger aye larger 
Loom their fierce cohorts, they shout as the day 
were won. 

Brown faces fronting the steel-bright armor, and 
ever 
The crash o' the combat runs on with a mighty 
cry, 
Fell tumult ; trampling and carnage — then fails 
endeavor, 
shame upon shame — the Christians falter and 

fly- 

The foe upon them, the foe afore and behind them, 
The king borne back in the melee; all, all is 
vain ; 
They fly with death at their heels, fierce sun-rays 
blind them, 
Riderless steeds affrighted, tread down their 
ranks amain. 



638 THE SLEEP OE SIGISMUND. 

Disgrace, dishonor, no rally, ah no retrieving, 
The scorn of scorns shall his name and his nation 
brand, 
'Tis a sword that smites from the rear, his helmet 
cleaving, 
That hurls him to earth, to his death on the desert 
sand. 

Ever they fly, the cravens, and ever reviling 

Flies after. Athirst, ashamed, he yieldeth his 
breath, 
While one looks down from his charger; a calm 
slow smiling 
Curleth his lip. 'Tis the Khalif. And this is 
death. 

IV. 

" Wake, yon purple peaks arise, 
Jagged, bare, through saffron skies ; 
Now is heard a twittering sweet, 
For the mother-martins meet, 
Where wet ivies, dew-besprent, 
Glisten on the battlement. 
Now the lark at heaven's gold gate 
Aiming, sweetly chides on fate 
That his brown wings wearied were 
When he, sure, was almost there. 
Now the valley mist doth break, 
Shifting sparkles edge the lake, 
Love, Lord, Master, wake, wake ! " 

v. 

Ay, he wakes, — and dull of cheer, 
Though his queen be very dear, 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 639 

Though a respite come with day 
From the abhorred flight and fray, 
E'en though life be not the cost, 
Nay, nor crown nor honor lost ; 
For in his soul abideth fear 
Worse than of the Khalif s spear, 
Smiting when perforce in flight 
He was borne, — for that was night, 
That his weird. But now 'tis day, 
" And good sooth I know not — nay, 
Know not how this thing could be. 
Never, more it seemeth me 
Than when left the weird to dree, 
I am I. And it was I 
Felt or ever they turned to fly, 
How, like wind, a tremor ran, 
The right hand of every man 
Shaking. Ay, all banners shook, 
And the red all cheeks forsook, 
Mine as theirs. Since this was I, 
Who my soul shall certify 
When again I face the foe 
Manful courage shall not go ? 
Ay, it is not thrust o' a spear, 
Scorn of infidel eyes austere, 
But mine own fear — is to fear." 



VI. 

After sleep thus sore bested, 
Beaten about and buffeted, 
Featly fares the morning spent 
In high sport and tournament. 



640 THE SLEEP OF SIGJSMUND. 



VII. 

Served within his sumptuous tent, 
Looks the king in quiet wise, 
Till this fair queen yield the prize 
To the bravest ; but when day 
Falleth to the west away, 
Unto her i 7 the silent hour, 
While she sits in her rose-bower 
Come, " love, full oft," quoth she, 
" I at dawn have prayed thee 
Thou would'st tell o' the weird to me, 
Sith I might some counsel find 
Of my wit or in my mind 
Thee to better." " Ay, e'en so, 
But the telling shall let thee know," 
Quoth the king, " is neither scope 
For sweet counsel nor fair hope, 
Nor is found for respite room, 
Till the uttermost crack of doom." 

VIII. 

Then the queen saith, " Woman's wit 
No man asketh aid of it, 
Not wild hyssop on a wall 
Is of less account ; or small 
Glossy gnats that flit i' the sun 
Less worth weighing — light so light ! 
Yet when all's said — ay, all done, 
Love, I love thee ! By love's might 
I will counsel thee aright, 
Or would share the weird to-night." 
Then he answer'd, " Have thy way. 
Know 'tis two years gone and a day 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 64] 

Since I, walking lone and late, 
Pondered sore mine ill estate; 
Open murmurers, foes concealed, 
Famines dire i' the marches round, 
Neighbor kings unfriendly found, 
Ay, and treacherous plots revealed 
Where I trusted. I bid stay 
All my knights at the high crossway, 
And did down the forest fare 
To bethink me, and despair. 
Ah ! thou gilded toy a throne, 
If one mounts to thee alone, 
Quoth I, mourning while I went, 
Haply he may drop content 
As a lark wing-weary down 
To the level, and his crown 
Leave for another man to don ; 
Throne, thy gold steps raised upon. 
But for me — as for me 
What is named I would not dree, 
Earn, or conquer, or forego 
For the barring of overthrow. 

IX. 

" Aloud I spake, but verily 
Never an answer looked should be. 
But it came to pass from shade 
Pacing to an open glade, 
Which the oaks a mighty wall 
Fence about, methought a call 
Sounded, then a pale thin mist 
Rose, a pillar, and fronted me, 
Rose and took a form I wist, 



642 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

And it wore a hood on 'ts head, 
And a long white garment spread, 
And I saw the eyes thereof. 

x. 

" Then my plumed cap I doff, 
Stooping. 'Tis the white-witch. 'Hail,' 
Quoth the witch, ' thou shalt prevail 
An thou wilt; I swear to thee 
All thy days shall glorious shine, 
Great and rich, ay, fair and fine, 
So what followeth rest my fee, 
So thou'lt give thy sleep to me. 5 

XI. 

" While she spake my heart did leap. 
Waking is man's life, and sleep — 
What is sleep ? — a little death 
Coming after, and methought 
Life is mine and death is naught 
Till it come, — so day is mine 
I will risk the sleep to shine 
In the waking. 

And she saith, 
In a soft voice clear and low, 
' Give thy plumed cap also 
For a token.' " 

" Didst thou give ? " 
Quoth the queen; and "As I live," 
He makes answer, "none can tell. 
I did will my sleep to sell, 
And in token held to her 
That she asked. And it fell 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 643 

To the grass. I saw no stir 

In her hand or in her face, 

And no going ; but the place 

Only for an evening mist 

Was made empty. There it lay, 

That same plumed cap, alway 

On the grasses — but I wist 

Well, it must be let to lie, 

And I left it. Now the tale 

Ends, the events do testify 

Of her truth. The days go by 

Better and better ; naught doth ail 

In the land, right happy and hale 

Dwell the seely folk ; but sleep 

Brings a reckoning ;. then forth creep 

Dreaded creatures, worms of might 

Crested with my plumed cap 

Loll about my neck all night, 

Bite me in the side, and lap 

My heart's blood. Then oft the weird 

Drives me, where amazed, afeard, 

I do safe on a river strand 

Mark one sinking hard at hand 

While fierce sleuth-hounds that me track 

Fly upon me, bear me back, 

Fling me away, and he for lack 

Of man's aid in piteous wise 

Goeth under, drowns and dies. 

XII. 

" sweet wife, I suffer sore — 
O methinks aye more and more 
Dull my day, my courage numb, 



644 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

Shadows from the night to corne. 
But no counsel, hope, nor aid 
Is to give ; a crown being made 
Power and rule, yea all good things 
Yet to hang on this same weird 
I must dree it, ever that brings 
Chastening from the white-witch feared. 
O that dreams mote me forsake, 
Would that man could alway wake." 

XIII. 

Now good sooth doth counsel fail, 

Ah this queen is pale, so pale. 

" Love," she sigheth, " thou didst not well 

Listening to the white-witch fell, 

Leaving her doth thee advance 

Thy plumed cap of maintenance." 

XIV. 

"She is white, as white snow flake," 
Quoth the king ; " a man shall make 
Bargains with her and not sin." 
"Ay," she saith, "but an he win, 
Let him look the right be done 
Else the rue shall be his own." 

xv. 

No more words. The stars are bright, 
For the feast high halls be dight, 
Late he coucheth. Night — 'tis night. 

The dead king lying in state in the Minster holy. 
Fifty candles burn at his head and burn at his 
feet, 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 645 

A crown, and royal apparel upon him lorn and lowly, 
And the cold hands stiff as horn by their cold 
palms meet. 

Two days dead. Is he dead ? Nay, nay — but is 
he living ? 
The weary monks have ended their chantings 
manifold, 
The great door swings behind them, night winds 
entrance giving, 
The candles flare and drip on him, warm and he 
so cold. 

Neither to move nor to moan, though sunk and 
though s wallow' d 
In earth he shall soon be trodden hard and no 
more seen. 
Soft you the door again ! Was it a footstep followed, 
Falter'd, and yet drew near him ? — Malva, Malva 
the queen ! 

One hand o' the dead king liveth (e'en so him 
seemeth) 
On the purple robe, on the ermine that folds his 
breast 
Cold, very cold. Yet e'en at that pass esteemeth 
The king, it were sweet if she kissed the place of 
its rest. 

Laid her warm face on his bosom, a fair wife grieved 
For the lord and love of her youth, and bewailed 
him sore ; 

Laid her warm face on the bosom of her bereaved 
Soon to go under, never to look on her more. 



646 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

His candles guide her with pomp funereal flaring, 
Out of the gulfy dark to the bier whereon he lies. 

Cometh this queen i' the night for grief or for daring, 
Out o' the dark to the light with large affrighted 
eyes ? 

The pale queen speaks in the Presence with fear 
upon her, 
" Where is the ring I gave to thee, where is my 
ring ? 
I vowed — 'twas an evil vow — by love, and by 
honor, 
Come life or come death to be thine, thou poor 
dead king." 

The pale queen's honor! A low laugh scathing 
and sereing — 
A mumbling as made by the dead in the tombs ye 
wot. 
Braveth the dead this queen? "Hear it, whoso 
hath hearing, 
I vowed by my love, cold king, but I loved thee 
not." 

Honor ! An echo in aisles and the solemn portals, 
Low sinketh this queen by the bier with its freight 
forlorn ; 
Yet kneeling, " Hear me ! " she crieth, " you just im- 
mortals, 
You saints bear witness I vowed and am not for- 
sworn. 

" I vowed in my youth, fool-king, when the golden 
fetter 
Thy love that bound me and bann'd me full 
weary I wore, 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 647 

But all poor men of thy menai I held them better, 
All stalwart knights of thy train unto me were 
more. 

" Twenty years I have lived on earth and two beside 
thee, 
Thirty years thou didst live on earth, and two on 
the throne : 
Let it suffice there be none of thy rights denied thee, 
Though I dare thy presence — I — come for my 
ring alone." 

She risen shuddereth, peering, afraid to linger. 
Behold her ring, it shineth ! " Now yield to me, 
thou dead, 
For this do I dare the touch of thy stark stiff finger." 
The queen hath drawn her ring from his hand, the 
queen hath fled. 

a O woman fearing sore, to whom my man's heart 
cleaved, 
The faith enwrought with love and life hath mocks 
for its meed " — 
The dead king lying in state, of his past bereaved, 
Twice dead. Ay, this is death. Now dieth the 
king indeed. 

XVI. 

" Wake, the seely gnomes do fly, 
Drenched across yon rainy sky, 
With the vex'd moon-mother'd elves, 
And the clonds do weep themselves 
Into morning. 

All night long 

Hath thy weird thee sore opprest ; 



54? THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

Wake. I have found within my breast 
nnseL" Ah. the weird was strong, 
But the time is told. Release 
Openeth on him when his eyes 
Lift them in dull desolate wise, 
And behold he is at peace. 
Ay. but silent. Of all done 
And all suffer' d in the night. 
Of all ills that do him spite 
She shall never know that one. 
Then he heareth accents bland. 
Seeth the queen's ring on his hand, 
And he riseth calmed withal. 

XVII. 

Eain and wind on the palace wall 
Beat and bluster, sob and moan, 
When at noon he musing lone, 
Comes the queen anigh his seat. 
And she kneeleth at his feet. 

XVIII. 

Quoth the queen. "My love, my lord, 
Take thy wife and take thy sword, 
We must forth in the stormy weather, 
Thou and I to the witch together. 
Thus I rede thee counsel deep, 
Thou didst ill to sell thy sleep, 
Turning so man's wholesome life 
From its meaning. Thine intent 
None shall hold for innocent. 
Thou dost take thy good things first, 
Then thou art cast into the worst ; 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 649 

First the glory, then the strife. 
Nay, but first thy trouble dree, 
So thy peace shall sweeter be. 
First to work and then to rest, 
Is the way for our humanity, 
Ay, she sayeth that loves thee best, 
We must forth and from this strife 
Buy the best part of man's life ; 
Best and worst thou holdest still 
Subject to a witch's will. 
Thus I rede thee counsel deep, 
Thou didst ill to sell thy sleep ; 
Take the crown from off thy head, 
Give it the white-witch instead, 
If in that she say thee nay, 
Get the night, — and give the day." 

XIX. 

Then the king (amazed, mild, 
As one reasoning with a child 
All his speech) : " ^ly wife ! my fair ! " 
And his hand on her brown hair 
Trembles ; " Lady, dost indeed 
Weigh the meaning of thy red< 
Would'st thou dare the dropping away 
Of allegiance, should our sway 
And sweet splendor and renown 
All be risked ? (methinks a crown 
Doth become thee marvellous well). 
We ourself are, truth to tell, 
Kingly both of wont and kind, 
Suits not such the craven mind." 
•• Yet this weird thou can'st not dree," 



650 THE SLEEP OF STGISMUND. 

Quoth the queen, " And live ; " then he, 
" I must die and leave the fair 
Unborn, long-desired heir 
To his rightful heritage." 

xx. 

But this queen arisen doth high 
Her two hands uplifting, sigh 
" God forbid." And he to assuage 
Her keen sorrow, for his part 
Searcheth, nor can find in his heart 
Words. And weeping she will rest 
Her sweet cheek upon his breast, 
Whispering, "Dost thou verily 
Know thou art to blame ? Ah me, 
Come," and yet beseecheth she, 
" Ah me, come." 

For good for ill, 
Whom man loveth hath her will. 
Court and castle left behind, 
Stolen forth in the rain and wind, 
Soon they are deep in the forest, fain 
The white-witch to raise again ; 
Down and deep where flat o'erhead 
Layer on layer do cedars spread, 
Down where lordly maples strain, 
Wrestling with the storm amain. 

XXI. 

Wide-winged eagles struck on high 
Headlong fall'n break through, and lie 
With their prey in piteous wise, 
And no film on their dead eyes. 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 651 



Matted branches grind and crash, 
Into darkness dives the flash, 
Stabs, a dread gold dirk of tire, 
Loads the lift with splinters dire. 
Then a pause i' the deadly feud — 
And a sick cowed quietude. 

XXII. 

Soh ! A pillar misty and gray, 
'Tis the white-witch in the way. 
Shall man deal with her and gain ? 
I trow not. Albeit the twain 
Costly gear and gems and gold 
Freely offer, she will hold 
Sleep and token for the pay 
She did get for greatening day. 

XXIII. 

" Or the night shall rest my fee 
Or the day shall naught of me," 
Quoth the witch. " An 't thee beseem, 
Sell thy kingdom for a dream." 

XXIV. 

" Now what will be let it be ! " 

Quoth the queen ; " but choose the right." 

And the white-witch scorns at her, 

Stately standing in their sight. 

Then without or sound or stir 

She is not. For offering meet 

Lieth the token at their feet, 

Which they, weary and sore bestead 

In the storm, lift up, full fain 



652 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

Ere the waning light hath fled 
Those high towers they left to gain. 

XXV. 

Deep among tree roots astray 
Here a torrent tears its way, 
There a cedar split aloft 
Lies head downward. Now the oft 
Muttering thunder, now the wind 
Wakens. How the path to find ? 
How the turning ? Deep ay deep, 
Far ay far. She needs must weep, 
This fair woman, lost, astray 
In the forest ; naught to say. 
Yet the sick thoughts come and go, 
" I, 'twas I would have it so." 

XXVI. 

Shelter at the last, a roof 

Wrought of ling (in their behoof, 

Foresters, that drive the deer). 

What, and must they couch them here? 

Ay, and ere the twilight fall 

Gather forest berries small 

And nuts down beaten for a meal. 

XXVII. 

Now the shy wood-wonners steal 
Nearer, bright-eyed furry things, 
Winking owls on silent wings 
Glance, and float away. The light 
In the wake o' the storm takes flight, 
Day departeth : night — 'tis night. 



THE SLEEP OF STGISMUND. 653 

The crown'd king musing of morn by a clear sweet 
river. 
Palms on the slope o' the valley, and no winds 
blow ; 
Birds blameless, dove-eyed, mystical talk deliver, 
Oracles haply. The language he doth not know. 

Bare, blue, are yon peaked hills for a rampart lying, 
As dusty gold is the light in the palms o'erhead, 

" What is the name o' the land? and this calm sweet 
sighing, 
If it be echo, where first was it caught and spread ? 

I might— I might be at rest in some field Elysian, 
If this be asphodel set in the herbage fair, 

I know not how I should wonder, so sweet the vision, 
So clear and silent the water, the field, the air. 

Love, are you by me ? Malva, what think you this 
meaneth ? 
Love, do you see the fine folk as they move over 
there ? 
Are they immortals ? Look you a winged one lean- 
eth 
Down from yon pine to the river of us unaware. 

All unaware ; and the country is full of voices, 
Mild strangers passing : they reck not of me nor 
of thee. 
List ! about and around us wondrous sweet noises, 
Laughter of little children and maids that dream- 
ing be. 

Love, I can see their dreams." A dim smile flitteth 
Over her lips, and they move as in peace supreme, 



654 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

And a small thing, silky haired, beside her sitteth, 
a this is thy dream atween us — this is thy 
dream." 

Was it then truly his dream with her dream that 
blended ? 
" Speak, dear child dear/' quoth the queen, " and 
mine own little son." 
" Father," the small thing murmurs ; then all is 
ended, 
He starts from that passion of peace — ay, the 
dream is done. 

XXVIII. 

" I have been in a good land," 
Quoth the king : " O sweet sleep bland, 
Blessed ! I am grown to more, 
Now the doing of right hath moved 
Me to love of right, and proved 
If one doth it, he shall be 
Twice the man he was before. 
Verily and verily, 
Thou fair woman, thou didst well ; 
I look back and scarce may tell 
Those false days of tinsel sheen, 
Flattery, feasting, that have been. 
Shows of life that were but shows, 
How they held me ; being I ween 
Like sand-pictures thin, that rose 
Quivering, when our thirsty bands 
Marched i' the hot Egyptian lands ; 
Shade of palms on a thick green plot, 
Pools of water that was not, 
Mocking us and melting away. 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 655 

XXIX. 

I have been a witch's prey, 

Art mine enemy now by day, 

Thou fell Fear ? There comes an end 

To the day ; thou canst not wend 

After me where I shall fare, 

My foredoomed peace to share. 

And awake with a better heart, 

I shall meet thee and take my part 

O' the dull world's dull spite ; with thine 

Hard will I strive for me and mine." 

xxx. 
A page and a palfrey pacing nigh, 
Malva the queen awakes. A sigh — 
One amazed moment — " Ay, 
We remember yesterday, 
Let us to the palace straight : 
What! do all my ladies wait — 
Is no zeal to find me ? What ! 
No knights forth to meet the king ; 
Due observance, is it forgot?" 

XXXI. 

" Lady," quoth the page, " I bring 
Evil news. Sir king 3 I say, 
My good lord of yesterday, 
Evil news." This king saith low, 
" Yesterday, and yesterday, 
The queen's yesterday we know, 
Tell us thine." " Sir king," saith he, 
"Hear. Thy castle in the night 
Was surprised, and men thy flight 



656 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

Learned but then ; thine enemy 
Of old days, our new king, reigns ; 
And sith thou wert not at pains 
To forbid it, hear also, 
Marvelling whereto this should grow 
How thy knights at break of morn 
Have a new allegiance sworn, 
And the men-at-arms rejoice, 
And the people give their voice 
For the conqueror. I, sir king, 
Rest thine only friend. I bring 
Means of flight ; now therefore fly, 
A great price is on thy head. 
Cast her Jewell- d mantle by, 
Mount thy queen i' the selle and hie 
(Sith disguise ye need, and bread) 
Down yon pleached track, down, down, 
Till a tower shall on thee frown; 
Him that holds it show this ring : 
So farewell, my lord the king." 

XXXII. 

Had one marked that palfrey led 
To the tower, he sooth had said, 
These are royal folk and rare — 
Jewels in her plaited hair 
Shine not clearer than her eyes, 
And her lord in goodly wise 
With his plumed cap in's hand 
Moves in the measure of command. 

XXXIII. 

Had one marked where stole forth two 
From the friendly tower anew, 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 657 



" Common folk," he sooth had said, 
Making for the mountain track. 
Common, common, man and maid. 
Clad in russet, and of kind 
Meet for russet. On his back 
A wallet bears the stalwart hind ; 
She, all shy, in rustic grace 
Steps beside her man apace, 
And wild roses match her face. 

xxxiv. 
Whither speed they ? Where are toss'd 
Like sea foam the dwarfed pines 
At the jagged sharp inclines ; 
To the country of the frost 
Up the mountains to be lost, 
Lost. No better now may be, 
Lost where mighty hollows thrust 
'Twixt the fierce teeth of the world, 
Fill themselves with crimson dust 
When the tumbling sun down hurl'd 
Stares among them drearily, 
As a' wondering at the lone 
Gulfs that weird gaunt company 
Fenceth in. Lost there unknown, 
Lineage, nation, name, and throne. 

XXXV. 

Lo, in a crevice choked with ling 
And fir, this man, not now the king, 
This Sigismund, hath made a fire, 
And by his wife in the dark night 
He leans at watch, her guard and squire. 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 



His wide eyes stare out for the light 
Weary. He needs must chide on fate, 
And she is asleep. " Poor brooding mate, 
What ! wilt thou on the mountain crest 
Slippery and cold scoop thy first nest ? 
Or must I clear some uncouth cave 
That laired the mother wolf, and save — 
Spearing her cubs — the gray pelt fine 
To be a bed for thee and thine ? 
It is my doing. Ay," quoth he, 
" Mine ; but who dares to pity thee 
Shall pity, not for loss of all, 
But that thou wert my wife perclie, 
E'en wife unto a witch's thrall, — 
A man beholden to the cold 
Cloud for a covering, he being sold 
And hunted for reward of gold." 

XXXVT. 

But who shall chronicle the ways 
Of common folk — the nights and days 
Spent with rough goatherds on their snows, 
Of travellers come whence no man knows, 
Then gone aloft on some sharp height 
In the dumb peace and the great light 
Amid brown eagles and wild roes ? 



XXXVII. 

'Tis the whole world whereon they lie, 
The rocky pastures hung on high 
Shelve off upon an empty sky. 
But they creep near the edge, look down — 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 659 



Great heaven ! another world afloat, 

Moored as in seas of air ; remote 

As their own childhood ; swooning away 

Into a tenderer sweeter day, 

Innocent, sunny. " for wings ! 

There lie the lands of other kings — 

I, Sigismnnd, my sometime crown 

Forfeit ; forgotten of renown 

My wars, my rule ; I fain would go 

Down to yon peace obscure." 

Even so ; 

Down to the country of the thyme, 
Where young kids dance, and a soft chime 
Of sheepbells tinkles ; then at last 
Down to a country of hollows, cast 
Up at the mountains full of trees, 
Down to fruit orchards and wide leas, 

XXXVIII. 

With name unsaid and fame unsunned 

He walks that was King Sigisinund. 

With palmers holy and pilgrims brown, 

New from the East, with friar and clown, 

He mingles in a walled town, 

And in the mart where men him scan 

He passes for a merchant man. 

Eor from his vest, where by good hap 

He thrust it, he his plumed cap 

Hath drawn and plucked the gems away, 

And up and down he makes essay 

To sell them ; they are all his wares 

And wealth. He is a man of cares, 

A man of toil ; no roof hath he 



660 THE SLEEP OE SIGISMUND. 

To shelter her full soon to be 
The mother of his dispossessed 
Desired heir. 

xxxix. 

Few words are best. 
He, once King Sigismund, saith few, 
But makes good diligence and true. 
Soon with the gold he gather'd so, 
A little homestead lone and low 
He buyeth : a field, a copse, with these 
A melon patch and mulberry trees 
And is the man' content ? Nay, morn 
Is toilsome, oft is noon forlorn, 
Though right be clone and life be won, 
Yet hot is weeding in the sun, 
Yea scythe to wield and axe to swing, 
Are hard on sinews of a king. 

XL. 

And Malva, must she toil? E'en so. 

Full patiently she takes her part, 

All, all so new. But her deep heart 

Forebodes more change than shall be shown 

Betwixt a settle and a throne. 

And lost in musing she will go 

About the winding of her silk, 

About the skimming of her goat's milk, 

About the kneading of her bread, 

And water drawn from her well-head. 

XLI. 

Then come the long nights dark and still, 
Then come the leaves and cover the sill, 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 66 1 

Then come the swift flocks of the stare, 
Then comes the snow — then comes the heir. 



XLII. 

If he be glad, if he be sad, 

How should one question when the hand 

Is full, the heart. That life he had, 

While leisure was aside may stand, 

Till he shall overtake the task 

Of every day, then let him ask 

(If he remember — if he will), 

" When I could sit me down and muse, 

And match my good against mine ill, 

And weigh advantage dulled by use 

At nothing, was it better with me ? " 

But Sigismund ! It cannot be 

But that he toil, nor pause, nor sigh, 

A dreamer on a day gone by 

The king is come. 



XLIII. 

His vassals two 
Serve with all homage deep and due. 
He is contented, he doth find 
Belike the kingdom much to his mind. 
And when the long months of his long 
Reign are two years, and like a song 
From some far sweeter world, a call 
From the king's mouth for fealty, 
Buds soon to blossom in language fall, 
They listen and find not any plea 
Left, for fine chiding at destiny. 



662 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

XLIV. 

Sigismund hath ricked the hay, 

He sitteth at close o' a sultry day 

Under his mulberry boughs at ease. 

" Hey for the world, and the world is wide, 

The world is mine, and the world is — these. " 

Beautiful Malva leans at his side, 

And the small babbler talks at his knees. 

XLV. 

Riseth a waft as of summer air, 
Floating upon it what moveth there ? 
Faint as the light of stars and wan 
As snow at night when the moon is gone, 
It is the white-witch risen once more. 

XLVI. 

The white-witch that tempted of yore 

So utterly doth substance lack, 

You may breathe her nearer and breathe her 

back. 
Soft her eyes, her speech full clear : 
" Hail, thou Sigismund my fere, 
Bargain with me yea or nay. 
Nay, I go to my true place, 
And no more thou seest my face. 
Yea, the good be all thine own, 
For now will I advance thy day, 
And yet will leave the night alone." 

XLVI I. 

Sigismund makes answer, "Nay. 
Though the Highest heaped on me 
Trouble, yet the same should be 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 663 



Welcomer than weal from thee. 
Nay ; — for ever and ever Nay." 
O, the white-witch floats away. 
Look you, look ! A still pure smile 
Blossoms on her mouth the while, 
White wings peaked high behind, 
Bear her; —no, the wafting wind, 
For they move not, — floats her back, 
Floats her up. They scarce may track 
Her swift rising, shot on high 
Like a ray from the western sky, 
Or a lark from some gray wold 
Utterly whelm 'd in sunset gold. 

XL VIII. 

Then these two long silence hold, 
And the lisping babe doth say, 
"White, white bird, it flew away." 
And they marvel at these things, 
For her ghostly visitings 
Turn to them another face. 
Haply she was sent, a friend 
Trying them, and to good end 
For their better weal and grace; 
One more wonder let to be 
In the might and mystery 
Of the world, where verily 
And good sooth a man may wend . 
All his life, and no more view 
Than the one right next to do. 

XLIX. 

So, the welcome dusk is here, 
Sweet is even, rest is dear; 



664 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

Mountain heads have lost the light, 
Soon they couch them. 
Night — 'tis night. 

Sigismund dreaming delightsomely after his haying. 
("Sleep of the laboring man/' quoth King 
David, "is sweet.") 
"Sigismund, Sigismund" — "Who is this calling 
and saying 
'Sigismund, Sigismund' ? blessed night do 
not fleet. 

Is it not dark — ay, methinks it is dark, I would 
slumber, 
O I would rest till the swallow shall chirp 'neath 
mine eaves." 
"Sigismund, Sigismund," multitudes now without 
number 
Calling, the noise is as dropping of rain upon 
leaves. 

"Ay," quoth he dreaming, "say on, for I, Sigis- 
mund, hear ye." 
"Sigismund, Sigismund, all the knights weary 
full sore. 
Come back, King Sigismund, come, they shall love 
thee and fear thee, 
The people cry out, come back to us, reign ever- 
more. 

The new king is dead, and we will not his son, no 
nor brother, 
Come with thy queen, is she busy yet, kneading 
of cakes? 



THE SLEEP OE SIGISMUND. 665 

Sigismund, show us the boy, is he safe, and his 
mother, 
Sigismund?" — dreaming he falls into laughter 
and wakes. 

L. 

And men say this dream came true, 
For he walking in the dew 
Turned aside while yet was red 
On the highest mountain head, 
Looking how the wheat he set 
Flourished. And the knights him met 
And him prayed "Come again, 
Sigismund our king, and reign." 
But at first — at first they tell 
How it liked not Malva well; 
She must leave her belted bees 
And the kids that she did rear. 
When she thought on it full dear 
Seemed her home. It did not please 
Sigismund that he must go 
From the wheat that he did sow; 
When he thought on it his mind 
Was not that should any bind 
Into sheaves that wheat but he, 
Only he ; and yet they went, 
And it may be were content. 
And they won a nation's heart; 
Very well they played their part. 
They ruled with sceptre and diadem, 
And their children after them. 



666 THE MAID-MARTYR. 

THE MAID-MARTYR. 

Only you'd have me speak. 

Whether to speak 

Or whether to be silent is all one; 

Whether to sleep and in my dreaming front 

Her small scared face forlorn ; whether to wake 

And muse upon her small soft feet that paced 

The hated, hard, inhospitable stone — 

I say all's one. But you would have me speak, 

And change one sorrow for the other. Ay, 

Right reverend father, comfortable father, 

Old, long in thrall, and wearied of the cell, 

So will I here — here staring through the grate, 

AVhence, sheer beneath us lying the little town, 

Her street appears a riband up the rise; 

Where 'tis right steep for carts, behold two ruts 

Worn in the Hat, smooth stone. 

That side I stood; 
My head was down. At first I did but see 
Her coming feet; they gleamed through my hot tears 
As she walked barefoot up yon short steep hill. 
Then I dared all, gazed on her face, the maid- 
Martyr, and utterly, utterly broke my heart. 

Her face, ! it was wonderful to me, 

There was not in it what I look'd for — no, 

I never saw a maid go to her death, 

How should I dream that face and the dumb soul? 

Her arms and head were bare, seemly she walked 
All in her smock so modest as she might; 



THE MAID-MARTYR. 667 

Upon her shoulders hung a painted cape 
For horrible adornment, flames of fire 
Portrayed upon it, and mocking demon heads. 

Her eyes — she did not see me — opened wide, 
Blue-black, gazed right before her, yet they marked 
Nothing; and her two hands uplift as praying, 
She yet prayed not, wept not, sighed not. father, 
She was past that, soft, tender, hunted thing; 
But, as it seemed, confused from time to time, 
She would half -turn her or to le'ft or right 
To follow other streets, doubting her way. 

Then their base pikes they basely thrust at her, 
And, like one dazed, obedient to her guides 
She came; I knew not if 'twas present to her 
That death was her near goal; she was so lost, 
And set apart from any power to think. 
But her mouth pouted as one brooding, father, 
Over a lifetime of forlorn fear. No, 
Scarce was it fear; so looks a timid child 
(Not more affrighted; ah! but not so pale) 
That has been scolded or has lost its way. 

Mother and father — father and mother kind, 
She was alone, where were you hidden? Alone, 
And I that loved her more, or feared death less, 
Bushed to her side, but quickly was flung back, 
And cast behind o' the pikemen following her 
Into a yelling and a cursing crowd, 
That bristled thick with monks and hooded friars; 
Moreover, women with their cheeks ablaze, 
"Who swarmed after up the narrowing street. 



668 THE MAW-MARTYR. 

Pitiful heaven! I knew she did not hear 
In that last hour the cursing, nor the foul 
Words ; she had never heard like words, sweet soul, 
In her life blameless ; even at that pass, 
That dreadful pass, I felt it had been worse, 
Though naught I longed for as for death, to know 
She did. She saw not 'neath their hoods those eyes 
Soft, glittering, with a lust for cruelty; 
Secret delight, that so great cruelty, 
All in the sacred name of Holy Church, 
Their meed to look' on it should be anon. 
Speak! O, I tell you this thing passeth words! 

From roofs and oriels high, women looked down ; 
Men, maidens, children, and a fierce white sun 
Smote blinding splinters from all spears aslant. 

Lo! next a stand, so please you, certain priests 
(May God forgive men sinning at their ease), 
Whose duty 'twas to look upon this tiling, 
Being mindful of thick pungent smoke to come, 
Had caused a stand to rise hard by the stake, 
Upon its windward side. 

My life ! my love ! 
She utter'd one sharp cry of mortal dread 
While they did chain her. This thing passeth 

words, 
Albeit told out forever in my soul. 
As the torch touched, thick volumes of black reek 
Rolled out and raised the wind, and instantly 
Long films of flaxen hair floated aloft, 
Settled alow, in drifts upon the crowd. 
The vile were merciful; heaped high, my dear, 



THE MAID-MARTYR. 669 

Thou didst not suffer long. ! it was soon, 

Soon over, and I knew not any more, 

Till grovelling on the ground, beating my head, 

I heard myself, and scarcely knew 'twas I, 

At Holy Church railing with fierce mad words, 

Crying and craving for a stake, for me. 

While fast the folk, as ever, sucli a work 

Being over, fled, and shrieked " A heretic ! 

More heretics; yon ashes smoking still." 

And up and almost over me came on 

A robed — ecclesiastic — with his train 

(I choose the words lest that they do some wrong)* 

Call him a robed ecclesiastic proud. 

And I lying helpless, with my bruised face 

Beat on his garnished shoon. But he Btepped hack, 

Spurned me full roughly with them, called the pikes, 

Delivering orders, " Take the bruised wretch. 

H'e raves. Fool! thou'lt hear more of this anon. 

Bestow him there." He pointed to a door. 

With that some threw a cloth upon my face 

Because it bled. I knew they carried me 

Within his home, and I was satisfied; 

Willing my death. Was it an abbey door? 

Was 't entrance to a palace? or a house 

Of priests? I say not, nor if abbot he, 

Bishop or other dignity; enough 

That he so spake. "Take in the bruised wretch." 

And I was borne far up a turret stair 

Into a peaked chamber taking form 

( >' the roof, and on a pallet bed they left 

Me miserable. Yet I knew forsooth, 

Left in my pain, that evil things were said 

Of that same tower; men thence had disappeared, 



670 THE MAID-MARTYR. 

Suspect of heresy had disappeared, 

Delivered up, 'twas whisper'd, tried and burned. 

So be it methought, I would not live, not I. 

But none did question me. A beldame old, 

Kind, heedless of my sayings, tended me. 

I raved at Holy Church and she was deaf, 

And at whose tower detained me, she was dumb. 

So had I food and water, rest and calm. 

Then on the third day I rose up and sat 

On the side of my low bed right melancholy, 

All that high force of passion overpast, 

I sick with dolorous thought and weak through tears 

Spite of myself came to myself again 

(For I had slept), and since I could not die 

Looked through the window three parts overgrown 

With leafage on the loftiest ivy ropes, 

And saw at foot o' the rise another tower 

In roof whereof a grating, dreary bare. 

Lifetimes gone by, long, slow, dim, desolate, 

I knew even there had been my lost love's cell. 

So musing on the man that with his foot 
Spurned me, the robed ecclesiastic stern, 
" Would he had haled me straight to prison, " me- 
thought, 
" So made an end at once." 

My sufferings rose 
Like billows closing over, beating down; 
Made heavier far because of a stray, strange, 
Sweet hope that mocked me at the last. 

'Twas thus, 
I came from Oxford secretly, the news 
Terrible of her danger smiting me, — 
She was so young, and ever had been bred 



THE MAID-MARTYR. 671 

With whom 'twas made a peril now to name. 
There had been worship in the night; some stole 
To a mean chapel deep in woods, and heard 
Preaching, and prayed. She, my betrothed, was 

there. 
Father and mother, mother and father kind, 
So young, so innocent, had ye no ruth, 
No fear, that ye did bring her to her doom? 
I know the chiefest Evil One himself 
Sanded that floor. Their footsteps marking it 
Betrayed them. How all came to pass let be. 
Parted, in hiding some, other in thrall, 
Father and mother, mother and father kind, 
It may be yet ye know not this — not all. 

I in the daytime lying perdue looked up 

At the castle keep impregnable, — no foot 

How rash so e'er might hope to scale it. Night 

Descending, come I near, perplexedness, 

Contempt of danger, to the door o' the keep 

Drawing me. There a short stone bench I found* 

And bitterly weeping sat and leaned my head 

Against the hopeless hated massiveness 

Of that detested hold. A lifting moon 

Had made encroachment on the dark, but deep 

Was shadow where I leaned. Within a while 

I was aware, but saw no shape, of one 

Who stood beside me, a dark shadow tall. 

I cared not, disavowal mattered naught 

Of grief to one so out of love with life. 

Bnt after pause I felt a hand let down 

That rested kindly, firmly, a man's hand, 

Upon my shoulder; there was cheer in it. 



672 THE MAID-MARTYR. 

And presently a voice clear, whispering, low, 
With pitifulness that faltered, spoke to me. 
Was I, it asked, true son of Mother Church? 
Coldly I answer'd " Ay; " then blessed words 
That danced into mine ears more excellent 
Music than wedding bells had been were said, 
With certitude that I might see my maid, 
My dear one. He would give a paper, he 
The man beside me. " Do thy best endeavor, 
Dear youth. Thy maiden being a right sweet cliild 
Surely will hearken to thee; an she do, 
And will recant, fair faultless heretic, 
Whose knowledge is but scant of matters high 
Which hard men spake on with her, hard men forced 
From her moutli innocent, then shall she come 
Before me; have good cheer, all may be well. 
But an she will not she must burn, no power — 
Not Solomon the Great on 's ivory throne 
With all his wisdom could find out a way, 
Nor I nor any to save her, she must burn. 
Now hast thou till day dawn. The Mother of God 
Speed thee." A twisted scroll he gave; himself 
Knocked at the door behind, and he was gone, 
A darker pillar of darkness in the dark. 
Straightway one opened and I gave the scroll. 
He read, then thrust it in his lanthorn flame 
Till it was ashes; " Follow " and no more 
Whisper'd, went up the giddy spiring way, 
I after, till we reached the topmost door. 
Then took a key, opened, and crying " Delia, 
Delia my sweetheart, I am come, I am come," 
I darted forward and he locked us in. 
Two figures; one rose up and ran to me 



THE MAID-MARTYR. 673 

Along the ladder of moonlight on the floor, 

Fell on my neck. Long time we kissed and wept. 

But for that other, while she stood appeased 

For cruel parting past, locked in mine arms, 

I had been glad, expecting a good end. - 

The cramped pale fellow prisoner " Courage " cried. 

Then Delia lifting her fair face, the moon 

Did show me its incomparable calms. 

Her effluent thought needed no word of mine, 

It whelmed my soul as in a sea of tears. 

The warm enchantment leaning on my breast 

Breathed as in air remote, and I was left 

To infinite detachment, even with hers 

To take cold kisses from the lips of doom, 

Look in those eyes and disinherit hope 

From that high place late won. 

Then murmuring low 
That other spake of Him on the cross, and soft 
As broken-hearted mourning of the dove, 
She "One deep calleth to another" sighed. 
"The heart of Christ mourns to my heart, 'Endure. 
There was a day when to the wilderness 
My great forerunner from his thrall sent forth 
Sad messengers, demanding Art thou He ? 
Think'st thou I knew no pang in that strange hour? 
How could I hold the power, and want the will 
Or want the love? That pang was his — and mine. 
He said not, Save me an thou be the Son, 
But only Art thou He ? In my great way 
It was not writ, — legions of Angels mine, 
There was one Angel, one ordain'd to unlock 
At my behest the doomed deadly doors. 



X 



674 THE MAID-MARTYR. 

I could not tell him, tell not thee, why.' Lord, 

We know not why, but would not have Thee grieve, 

Think not so deeply on 't; make us endure 

For Thy blest sake, hearing Thy sweet voice mourn 

'I will go forth, thy desolations meet, 

And with my desolations solace them. 

I will not break thy bonds, but I am bound, 

With thee. '" 

I feared. That speech deep furrows cut 
In my afflicted soul. I whisper'd low, 
"Thou wilt not heed her words, my golden girl." 
But Delia said not aught; only her hand 
Laid on my cheek and on the other leaned 
Her own. O there was comfort, father, 
In love and nearness, e'en at the crack of doom. 

Then spake I, and that other said no more, 
For I appealed to God and to his Christ. 
Unto the strait-barred window led my dear; 
Not table, bed, nor plenishing; no place 
They had for rest : maugre two narrow chairs 
By day, by night they sat thereon upright. 
One drew I to the opening ; on it set 
My Delia, kneeled ; upon its arm laid mine, 
And prayed to God and prayed of her. 

Father, 
If thou should ask e'en now, "And art thou glad 
Of what befell? " I could not say it, father, 
I should be glad; therefore God make me glad, 
Since we shall die to-morrow! 

Think not sin, 
O holy, harmless reverend man, to fear. 
' Twill be soon over. Now I know thou fear'st 



THE MAID-MARTYR. 675 

Also for me, lest I be lost; but aye 

Strong comfortable hope doth wrap me round, 

A token of acceptance. I am cast 

From Holy Church, and not received of thine ; 

But the great Advocate who knoweth all, 

He whispers with me. 

my Delia wept 
When I did plead; "I have much feared to die," 
Answering. (The moonlight on her blue-black eyes 
Fell; shining tears upon their lashes hung; 
Fair showed the dimple that I loved; so young, 
So very young.) "But they did question me 
Straitly, and make me many times to swear, 
To swear of all alas, that I believed. 
Truly, unless my soul 1 would have bound 
With false oaths — difficult, innumerous, strong, 
Way was not left me to get free. 

"But now," 
Said she, "I am happy; I have seen the place 
Where I am going. 

" I will tell it you, 
Love, Hubert. Do not weep ; they said to me 
That you would come, and it would not be long. 
Thus was it, being sad and full of fear, 
I was crying in the night ; and prayed to God 
And said, 'I have not learned high tilings; ' and said 
To the Saviour, 'Do not be displeased with me, 
I am not crying to get back and dwell 
Witli my good mother and my father fond, 
Nor even with my love, Hubert — my love, 
Hubert; but I am crying because I fear 
Mine answers were not rightly given — so hard 
Those questions. If I did not understand, 



676 THE MAID-MARTYR. 

Wilt Thou forgive me? ' And the moon went down 

While I did pray, and looking on the floor, 

Behold a little diamond there, 

So small it might have dropped from out a ring. 

I could but look ! The diamond waxed — it grew — 

It was a diamond yet, and shot out rays, 

And in the midst of it a rose-red point; 

It waxed till I might see the rose-red point 

Was a little Angel mid those oval rays, 

With a face sweet as the first kiss, love, 

You gave me, and it meant that self-same thing. 

"Now was it tall as I, among the rays 

Standing; I touched not. Through the window 

drawn, 
This barred and narrow window, — but I know 
Nothing of how, we passed, and seemed to walk 
Upon the air, till on the roof we sat. 

"It spoke. The sweet mouth did not move, but all 

The Angel spoke in strange words full and old, 

It was my Angel sent to comfort me 

With a message, and the message, 'I might come, 

And myself see if He forgave me.' Then 

Deliver'd he admonition, 'Afterwards 

I must return and die.' But I being dazed, 

Confused with love and joy that He so far 

Did condescend, 'Ay, Eminence, ' replied, 

'Is the way great? ' I knew not what I said. 

The Angel then, 'I know not far nor near, 

But all the stars of God this side it shine.' 

And I forgetful wholly for this thing 

My soul did pant in, a rapture and a pain, 



THE MAID-MARTYR. 677 



So great as they would melt it quite away 

To a vanishing like mist when sultry rays 

Shot from the daystar reckon with it — I 

Said in my simpleness, 'But is there time? 

For in three days I am to burn, and O 

I would fain see that He forgiveth first. 

Pray you make haste. ' ' I know not haste, ' he said ; 

'1 was not fashioned to be thrall of time. 

What is it? ' And I marvelled, saw outlying, 

Shaped like a shield and of dimensions like 

An oval in the sky beyond all stars, 

And trembled with foreknowledge. We were bound 

To that same golden holy hollow. I 

Misdoubted how to go, but we were gone. 

I set off wingless, walking empty air 

Beside him. In a moment we were caught 

Am mg thick swarms of lost ones, evil, fell, 

Of might, only a little less than gods, 

And strong enough to tear the earth to shreds, 

Set shoulders to the sun and rend it out 

()' its place. Their wings did brush across my face, 

Yet felt I naught; the place was vaster far 

Than all this wholesome pastoral windy world. 

Through it we spinning, pierced to its far brink, 

Saw menacing frowns and we were forth again. 

Time has no instant for the reckoning aught 

So sudden; 'twas as if a lightning Hash 

Threw us within it, and a swifter flash, 

AW' riding harmless down its swordlike edge, 

Shot us fast forth to empty nothingness. 

"All my soul trembled, and my body it seemed 
Pleaded than such a sight rather to faint 



678 THE MAID-MARTYR. 



To the last silence, and the eery grave 

Inhabit, and the slow solemnities 

Of dying faced, content me with my shroud. 

"And yet was lying athwart the morning star 
That shone in front, that holy hollow; yet 
It loomed, as hung atilt towards the world, 
That in her time of sleep appeared to look 
Up to it, into it. 

•• We, though I wept, 
Fearing and longing, knowing not how to go, 
My hfeart gone first, both mine eyes dedicate 
To its all-hallowed sweet desired gold, 
We on the empty limitless abyss 
Walked slowly. It was far; 

" And 1 feared much, 
For lo! when I looked down deep under me 
The little earth was such a little thing, 
How in the vasty dark find her again? 
The crescent moon a moored boat hard by, 
Did wait on her and touch her ragged rims 
With a small gift of silver. 

" Love ! my life ! 
Hubert, while I yet wept, O we were there. 
A menai of Angels first, a swarm of stars 
Took us among them (all alive with stars 
Shining and shouting each to each that place); 
The feathered multitude did lie so thick 
We walked upon them, walked on outspread wings, 
And the great gates were standing open. 

"Love! 
The country is not what you think; but oh! 
When you have seen it nothing else contents. 



THE MAID-MARTYR. 679 

The voice, the vision was not what yon think — 
P>ut oh! it was all. It was the meaning of life, 
Excellent consummation of desires 
Forever, let into the heart with pain 
Most sweet. That smile did take the feeding soul 
I) M'per and deeper into heaven. The sward 
(For 1 had bowed my face on it) I found 
Grew in my spirit's longed-for native land — 
At last I was at home." 

And here she paused: 
I must needs weep. I have not been in heaven, 
Therefore she could not tell me what she heard, 
Therefore Bhe might not tell me what she saw, 
( > 1 1 1 \ 1 understood that < >ne drew Dear 
Who said to her she should e'en come, " Because," 
Said He, "My Father Loves Me. I will ask 
He send, a guiding A.ngel for My sake, 

Since the dark \v;iy is Long, and rough, ami hard, 

So that 1 shall not lose whom 1 love — thee." 

Other words wonderful of things not known, 

When she had uttered. I gave hope away, 

Cried out, and took her in despairing arms, 

Asking no more. Then while the comfortless 

Dawn till night fainted grew, alas! a key 

That with abhorred jarring probed the door. 

We kissed, we Looked, unlocked our arms. She 

Sighed 

•• Remember." "Ay, I will remember. What?" 

"To come to me." Then I. thrust roughly forth — 

I. bereft, dumb, forlorn, unremedied 

My hurt forever, stumbled blindly down, 

Ami the great door was shut behind and chained. 



68o THE MAID-MARTYR. 

The weird pathetic scarlet of day dawning, 
More kin to death of night than birth of morn, 
Peered o'er yon hill bristling with spires of pine. 
I heard the crying of the men condemned, 
Men racked, that should be martyr' d presently, 
And my great grief met theirs with might; 1 held 
All our poor earth's despairs in my poor breast, 
The choking reek, the faggots were all mine. 
Ay, and the partings they were all mine — mine. 
Father, it will be very good methinks 
To die so, to die soon. It doth appease 
The soul in misery for its fellows, when 
There is no help, to suffer even as they. 

Father, when I had lost her, when I sat 
After my sickness on the pallet bed, 
My forehead dropp'd into my hand, behold 
Some one beside me. A man's hand let down 
With that same action kind, compassionate, 
Upon my shoulder. And I took the hand 
Between mine own, laying my face thereon. 
I knew this man for him who spoke with me, 
Letting me see my Delia. I looked up. 
Lo! lo! the robed ecclesiastic proud, 
He and this other one. Tell you his name? 
Am I a fiend? No, he was good to me, 
Almost he placed his life in my hand. 

Father, 
He with good pitying words long talked to me, 
" Did I not strive to save her? " " Ay," quoth I. 
" But sith it would not be, I also claim 
Death, burning; let me therefore die — let me. 
I am wicked, would be heretic, but, faith, 



THE MAW-MARTYR. 681 

I know not how, and Holy Church I hate. 
She is no mother of mine, she slew my love." 
What answer? " Peace, peace, thou art hard on me. 
Favor I forfeit with the Mother of God, 
Lose rank among the saints, foresee my soul 
Drenched in the unmitigated flame, and lake 
Mj payment in the lives snatched at all risk 
From battling in it here. 0, an thou turn 
And tear from me, lost to that other world 
My heart's reward in this, 1 am twice lost; 
Now have 1 doubly failed." 

Father, I know 
The Church would rail, hound forth, disgrace, try, 

burn, 
M.ike his proud name, discover'd, infamy, 
Tread underfoot his ashes, curse his soul, 
Bu1 God is greater than the Church. I hope 
He shall not, for th.it he loved men, lose G<»il. 
I hope bo hear it said "Thy Bins are, all 
Forgiven; come in, thou hast done well." 

For me 
Mv chronicle comes down to its last page. 
u Is Dot Life sweet?" quoth he, and comforted 
M \ Bick heart with good words, "duty" and 

" home." 
Then took me at moonsetting down the stair 
To the dark deserted midwaj of the street, 
Gave me a purse of money, and his hand 
Laid on my shoulder, holding me with words 
A father might have said, bade me God speed, 
So pushed tin' from him, turned, and he was gone. 

There was a Pleiad lost; where is she now'.' 
None knoweth, — she reigns, it is my creed, 



682 THE MAID-MARTYR. 



Otherwhere dedicate to making day. 
The God of Gods, He doubtless looked to that 
Who wasteth never aught He fashioned. 
I have no vision, but where vision fails 
Faith cheers, and truly, truly there is need, 
The god of this world being so unkind. 
O love ! My girl forever to the world 
Wanting. Lost, not that any one should find, 
But wasted for the sake of waste, and lost 
For love of man's undoing, of man's tears, 
By envy of the Evil One; I mourn 
For thee, my golden girl, I mourn, I mourn. 

He set me free. And it befell anon 
That I must imitate aim. Then 't befell 
That od the holy Book I read, and all, 
The mediating Mother and her Babe, 

C.d ;in«l the Church, and man and Life and death, 

And the dark gulfs of bitter purging flame, 

Did take on alteration. Like a ship 

Cast from her moorings, drifting from her port, 

Not bound to any land, not sure of land, 

My dulPd soul lost her reckoning on that sea 

She sailed, and yet the voyage was nigh done. 

This God was not the God I had known; this Christ 

Was other. O, a gentler God, a Christ — 

By a mother and a Father infinite — 

In distance each from each made kin to me. 

Blest Sufferer on the rood ; but yet, I say 

Other. Far gentler, and I cannot tell, 

Father, if you, or she, my golden girl, 

Or I, or any aright those mysteries read. 



THE MAID-MARTYR. 6S3 



I cannot fathom them. There is not time, 
So quickly men condemned me to this cell. 
I qnarrell'd not so much with Holy Church 
For that she taught, as that my love she burned. 
I die because I hid her enemies, 
And read the Book. 

But 0, forgiving God, 
I do elect to trust Thee. I have thought, 
What! are there set between us and the sun 
Millions of miles, and did He like a tent 
Bear up yon vasty sky? Is heaven less wide? 
And dwells Be there, but tor His winged host, 
Almost aluu.'? Truly I think riot so; 
II.' lias had trouble enough with this pooi world 
To make Him as an earthly father would, 

Love it and value it niuiv. 

He did not give 
80 much tO have us with Hun. and yet tail. 
And uow He knows I would believe e'en so 
A - pleaseth Him, an there was time to learn 
Or certitude of heart; hut time fails, time. 
He knoweth also 'twere a piteous thing 
Not to be sun- of my love's welfare— not 
To see her happy and good in that new home. 
M,»st piteous. I could all forego but this. 
( ) let me see her, Lord. 

What, also I! 
White ashes and a waft of rapor — I 
To Butter on before the winds. Ts T o, no. 
And yet forever ay — my fresh shall hiss 
And ] shall hear 'f. 1 hvadtul. unlu-arahlei 
Is it to-morrow? 

Ay, indeed, indeed, 



684 A VINE-ARBOR IN THE FAR WEST. 

To-morrow. But my moods are as great waves 
That rise and break and thunder down on me, 
And then falPn back sink low. 

I have waked long 
And cannot hold my thoughts upon the event ; 
They slip, they wander forth. 

How the dusk grows. 
This is the last moonrising we shall see. 
Methought till morn to pray, and cannot pray. 
Where is mine Advocate? let Him say all 
And more was in my mind to say this night, 
Because to-morrow — Ah! no more of that. 

The tale is told. Father, I fain would sleep, 
Truly my soul is silent unto God. 



A VINE-ARBOR IN THE FAR WEST. 

T. 

" Laura, my Laura ! " " Yes, mother ! " "I want 

you, Laura; come down." 
"What is it, mother — what, dearest? your 

loved face how it pales ! 
You tremble, alas and alas — you heard bad news 

from the town?" 
"Only one short half hour to tell it. My poor 

courage fails — 

ii. 
Laura." " Where's Eonald? — anything else but 

Ronald ! " " No, no, 
Not Ronald, if all beside, my Laura, disaster and 

tears ; 



A VINE-ARBOR IN THE EAR WEST. 685 

But you, it is yours to send them away, for you 

they will go, 
One short half hour, and must it decide, it must for 

the years. 

in. 
Laura, you think of your father sometimes?" 

" Sometimes ! " " Ah, but how? " 
" I think — that we need not think, sweet mother — 

the time is not yet, 
He is as the wraith of a wraith, and a far-off 

shadow now 
— But if you have heard he is dead? " " Not that.* 

"Then let me forget." 

r 

IV. 

"The sun is off the south window, draw back tlty 

curtain, my child." 
"But tell it, mother." "Answer you first what it 

is that you see." 
" The lambs on the mountain slope, and the crevice 

with blue ice piled." 
"Nearer." — "But, mother!" "Nearer!" "Nj 

heifer she's lowing to me." 

v. 

"Nearer." " Nothing, sweet mother, yes, for one 

sits in the bower. 
Black the clusters hang out from the vine about his 

snow-white head, 
And the scarlet leaves, where my Konald leaned." 

" Only one half hour — 
Laura" — "0 mother, my mother dear, all known 

though nothing said. 



686 A VINE-ARBOR IN THE FAR WEST. 

VI. 

it breaks my heart, the face dejected that looks 

not on us, 
A beautiful face — I remember now, though long I 

forgot." 
" Ay and I loved it. I love him to-day, and to see 

him thus! 
Saying ; I go if she bids it, for work her woe — I 

will not. ' 

VII. 

There! weep not, wring not your hands, but think, 

think with your heart and soul." 
"Was he innocent, mother? If he was, I sure had 

been told." 
" He said so." " Ah, but they do." " And I hope 

— and long was his dole, 
And all for the signing a name (if indeed he signed) 

for gold." 

VIII. 

" To find us again, in the far far West, where hid, 

we were free — 
But if he was innocent — my heart, it is riven in 

two, 
If he goes how hard upon him — or stays — how 

harder on me, 
For my Ronald, my Ronald, my dear, — my best 

what of you ! " 

IX. 

" Peace ; think, my Laura — I say he will go there, 

weep not so sore. 
And the time is come, Ronald knows nothing, your 

father will go, 



LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE. 68 7 

As the shadow fades from its place will he, and be 

seen no more." 
"There'll be time to think to-morrow, and after, 

but to-day, no. 

x. 
I'm going down the garden, mother." "Laura!' 1 

"I've dried my tears." 
"0 how will this end?" "I know not the end, I 

can but begin." 
" But what will you say ? " " Not * Welcome, father, ' 

though long were those years, 
But I'll say to him, '0 my poor father, we wait 

you, come in.'" 



LOVEKS AT THE LAKE SIDE. 

1. 

" And you brought him home ? " "I did, ay Ronald, 

it rested with me." 
" Love ! " " Yes." " I would fain you were not so 

calm." " I cannot weep. No." 
"What is he like, your poor father?" "He is — 

like — this fallen tree 
Prone at our feet, by the still lake taking on rose 

from the glow, 

11. 
Now scarlet, look! overcoming the blue both lake 

and sky, 
While the waterfalls waver like smoke, then leap 

in and are not. 



688 LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE. 

And shining snow-points of high sierras cast clown, 
there they lie." 

"O Laura — I cannot bear it. Laura! as if I for- 
got." 

in. 

"No, you remember, and I remember that evening 
— like this 

When we come forth from the gloomy Canyon, lo, 
a sinking sun. 

And, Ronald, you gave to me your troth ring, I 
gave my troth kiss." 

" Give me another, I say that this makes no differ- 
ence, none. 

IV. 

It hurts me keenly. It hurts to the soul that you 
thought it could." 

"I never thought so, my Eonald, my love, never 
thought you base. 

No, but I look for a nobler nobleness, loss under- 
stood, 

Accepted, and not that common truth which can 
hold through disgrace. 

v. 
O! we remember, and how ere that noon through 

deeps of the lake 
We floating looked down and the boat's shadow 

followed on rocks below, 
So clear the water. O all pathetic as if for love's 

sake 
Our life that is but a fleeting shadow 'twould under 

us show. 



LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE. 689 



VI. 

we remember forget-me-not pale, and white col- 

umbine 
You wreathed for my hair; because we remember 

this cannot be. 
Ah ! here is your ring — see, I draw it off — it must 

not be mine, 
Put it on, love, if but for the moment and listen to 

me. 

VII. 

1 look for the best, I look for the most, I look for 

the all 
From you, it consoles this misery of mine, there is 

you to trust. 
if you can weep, let us weep together, tears may 

well fall 
For that lost sunsetting and what it promised, — 

they may, they must, 

VIII. 

Do you say nothing, mine own beloved, you know 

what I mean, 
And whom. — To her pride and her love from volt 

shall such blow be dealt. . . . 
. . . Silence uprisen, is like a presence, it comes 

us between . . . 
As once there was darkness, now is there silence 

that may be felt. 

IX. 

Eonald, your mother, so gentle, so pure, and you 

are her best, 
'Tis she whom I think of, her quiet sweetness, her 

gracious way. 



690 LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE. 

How could she bear it ? " — " Laura ! " " Yes, Ron- 
ald." "Let that matter rest." 

"You might give your name to my father's child?" 
"My father's name. Ay, 

x. 

Who died before it was soiled." "You mutter." 

"Why, love, are you here?" 
"Because my mother fled forth to the West, her 

trouble to hide, 
And I was so small, the lone pine forest, and tier 

upon tier, 
Far off Mexican snowy sierras pushed England 

aside." 

XI. 

"And why am I here?" "But what did you mut- 
ter?" "0 pardon, sweet." 

"Why came I here and — my mother? In truth 
then I cannot tell." 

" Yet you drew my ring from your finger — see — I 
kneel at your feet. 

Put it on. 'Twas for no fault of mine." "Love! 
I knew that full well." 

XII. 

"And yet there be faults that long repented, are aye 

to deplore, 
Wear my ring, Laura, at least till I choose some 

words I can say, 
If indeed any word need be said." "No! wait, 

Ronald, no more; 
What! is there respite? Give me a moment to 

think 'nay ' or 'ay,' 



THE WHITE MOGN WASTETH. 69] 



XIII. 

I know not, but feel there is. pardon me, par- 
don me — peace ; 

For naught is to say, and the dawn of hope is a 
solemn thing, 

Let us have silence. Take me back, Ronald, full 
sweet is release." 

"Laura! but give me my troth kiss again." "And 
give me my ring." 



THE WHITE MOON WASTETH, 

The white moon wasteth, 
And cold morn hasteth 

Athwart the snow, 
The red east burnetii 
And the tide turneth, 

And thou must go. 

Think not, sad rover, 
Their story all over 

Who come from far — 
Once, in the ages 
Won goodly wages 

Led by a star. 

Once, for all duly 
Guidance doth truly 

Shine as of old, 
Opens for me and thee 
Once, opportunity 

Pier gates of gold. 



692 AN ARROW-SLIT. 

Enter, thy star is out, 
Traverse nor faint nor doubt 

Earth's antres wild, 
Thou shalt find good and rest 
As found the Magi blest 

That divine Child. 



AN ARROW-SLIT. 

I clomb full high the belfry tower 
Up to yon arrow-slit, up and away, 

I said " Let me look on my heart's fair flower 
In the walled garden where she doth play." 

My care she knoweth not, no nor the cause, 
White rose, red rose about her hung, 

And I aloft with the doves and the daws, 
They coo and call to their callow young. 

Sing, " an she were a white rosebud fair 
Dropt, and in danger from passing feet, 

'Tis I would render her service tender, 

Upraised on my bosom with reverence meet." 

Playing at the ball, my dearest of all, 
When she grows older how will it be, 

I dwell far away from her thoughts to-day 
That heed not, need not, or mine or me. 

Sing, " an my love were a fledgling dove 
That flutters forlorn o'er her shallow nest, 

'Tis I would render her service tender, 
And carry her, carry her on my .breast." 



WENDOVER. 693 



WENDOVER. 

Uplifted and lone, set apart with our love 
On the crest of a soft swelling down. 

Cloud shadows that meet on the grass at our feet 
Sail on above Wendover town. 

Wendover town takes the smile of the sun 
As if yearning and strife were no more, 

From her red roofs float high neither plaint neither 
sigh, 
All the weight of the world is our own. 

Would that life were more kind and that souls 
might have peace 

As the wide mead from storm and from bale, 
We bring up our own care, but how sweet over there 

And how strange is their calm in the vale. 

As if trouble at noon had achieved a deep sleep, 
Lapped and lulled from the weariful fret, 

Or shot down out of day, had a hint dropt away 
As if grief might attain to forget. 

Not if we two indeed had gone over the bourne 
And were safe on the hills of the blest, 

Not more strange they might show to us drawn 
from below, 
Come up from long dolor to rest. 

But the peace of that vale would be thine, love, and 
mine 
And sweeter the air than of yore, 



694 THE LOVER PLEADS. 

And this life we have led as a dream that is fled 
Might appear to our thought evermore. 

"Was it life, was it life?" we might say, "'twas 
scarce life," 

"Was it love? 'twas scarce love," looking down, 
" Yet we mind a sweet ray of the red sun one day 

Low lying on Wendover town." 



THE LOVER PLEADS. 



When I had guineas many a one 
Naught else I lacked 'neath the sun, 
I had two eyes the bluest seen, 
A perfect shape, a gracious mien, 
I had a voice might charm the bale 
From a two days' widowed nightingale, 
And if you ask how this I know 
I had a love who told me so. 



The lover pleads, the maid hearkeneth, 
Her foot turns, his day darkeneth. 
Love unkind, O can it be 
'Twas your foot false did turn from me? 

ii. 

The gear is gone, the red gold spent, 
Favor and beauty with them went, 
Eyes take the veil, their shining done, 
Not fair to him is fair to none, 



SONG IN THREE PARTS. 695 



Sweet as a bee's bag 'twas to taste 
His praise. honey run to waste, 
He loved not! spoiled is all my way 
In the spoiling of that yesterday. 

The shadows wax, the low light alters, 
Gold west fades, and false heart falters. 
The pity of it! — Love's a rover, 
The last word said, and all over. 



SONG IN THREE PARTS. 

1. 

The white broom flatt'ring her flowers in calm June 
weather, 

"0 most sweet wear; 
Forty -eight weeks of my life do none desire me, 

Four am I fair." 

Quoth the brown bee, 
" In thy white wear 
Four thou' art fair. 
A mystery 
Of honeyed snow 
In scented air 
The bee lines flow 
Straight, unto thee. 
Great boon and bliss 
All pure I wis, 
And sweet to grow. 



696 SONG IN THREE PARTS. 

Ay, so to give 
That many live. 
Now as for me, 
I, " quoth, the bee, 
" Have not to give, 
Through long hours sunny 
Gathering I live : 
Aye debonair 
Sailing sweet air 
After my fare, 
Bee-bread and honey. 
In thy deep coombe 

thou white broom, 
Where no leaves shake, 
Brake, 

Bent nor clover, 

1 a glad rover 
Thy calms partake, 
While winds of might 
From height to height 
Go bodily over. 

Till slanteth light, 
And up the rise 
Thy shadow lies, 
A shadow of white, 
A beauty-lender 
Pathetic, tender. 

Short is thy day? 
Answer with 'Nay/ 
Longer the hours 
That wear thy flowers 
Than all dull, cold 



SONG IN THREE PARTS. 697 

Years manifold 
That gift withhold. 
A long liver, 

honey -giver, 
Though by all showing 
Art made, bestowing, 

1 envy not 
Thy greater lot, 
Nor thy white wear. 
But, as for me, 

I," quoth the bee, 
"Never am fair." 

11. 

The nightingale lorn of his note in darkness brood- 
ing 

Deeply and long, 
" Two sweet months spake the heart to the heart. 
Alas! all's over, 

O lost my song." 

One in the tree, 

" Hush now ! Let be : 

The song at ending 

Left my long tending 

Over also. 

Let be, let us go 

Across the wan sea. 

The little ones care not, 

And I fare not 

Amiss with thee. 

Thou hast sung all, 
This hast thou had. 



69S SONG IN TIIRr.h] PARTS. 

Love, be not sad; 
It shall befall 
Assuredly, 

When the bush buddeth 
And the bank studdetli — 
Where grass is sweet 
And damps do fleet, 
Her delicate beds 
With daisy heads 
That the Stars Seven 
Leaned down from heaven 
Shall sparkling mark 
In the warm dark 
Thy most dear strain 
Which cingeth aye true — 
Piercing vale, croft 
Lifted aloft 
Dropt even as dew 
With a sweet quest 
To her on the nest 
When damps we love 
Fall from above. 
'Art thou asleep? 
Answer me, answer me, 
Night is so deep 
Thy right fair form 
I cannot see; 
Answer me, answer me, 
Are the eggs warm? 
Is't well with thee? • 

Ay, this shall be 
Assuredly. 



"IF I FORGET THEE » 699 

Ay, thou full fain 
In the soft rain 
Shalt sing again." 

in. 

A fair wife making her moan, despised, forsaken, 
Her good days o'er; 
" Seven sweet years of my life did I live beloved, 
Seven — no more. " 

Then Echo woke — and spoke 
" No more — no more," 

And a wave broke 
On the sad shore 

When Echo said 
"No more." 

Naught else made reply, 

Nor land, nor loch, nor sky 

Did any comfort try, 

But the wave spread 

Echo's faint tone 

Alone, 

All down the desolate shore, 

" No more — ■ no more." 



"IF I FOKGET THEE, JERUSALEM. 1 

Out of the melancholy that is made 
Of ebbing sorrow that too slowly ebbs, 
Comes back a sighing whisper of the reed, 
A note in new love-pipings on the bough, 



700 "fjr I FORGET THEE " 

Grieving with grief till all the full-fed air 

And shaken milky corn doth wot of it, 

The pity of it trembling in the talk 

Of the beforetime merrymaking brook — 

Out of that melancholy will the soul, 

In proof that life is not forsaken quite 

Of the old trick and glamour which made glad, 

Be cheated some good day and not perceive 

How sorrow ebbing out is gone from view, 

How tired trouble fall'n for once on sleep, 

How keen self -mockery that youth's eager dream 

Interpreted to mean so much is found 

To mean and give so little — frets no more, 

Floating apart as on a cloud — then 

Not e'en so much as murmuring "Let this end," 

She will, no longer weighted, find escape, 

Lift up herself as if on wings and flit 

Back to the morning time. 

" once with me 
It was all one, such joy I had at heart, 
As I heard sing the morning star, or God 
Did hold me with an Everlasting Hand, 
And dip me in the day. 

once with me," 
Reflecting " 'twas enough to live, to look 
Wonder and love. Now let that come again. 
Rise ! " And ariseth first a tanglement 
Of flowering bushes, peonies pale that drop 
Upon a mossy lawn, rich iris spikes, 
Bee-borage, mealy-stemmed auricula, 
Brown wallflower, and the sweetbriar ever sweet, 
Her pink buds pouting from their green. 

To these 



IF I FORGET THEE » J0] 



Add thick espaliers where the bullfinch came 
To strew much budding wealth, and was not chid 
Then add wide pear trees on the warmed wall, 
The old red wall one cannot see beyond. 
That is the garden. 

In the wall a door 
Green, blistered with the sun. You open it, 
And lo! a sunny waste of tumbled hills 
And a glad silence and an open calm. 
Infinite leisure, and a slope where rills 
Dance down delightedly, in every crease, 
And lambs stoop drinking and the finches dip. 
Then shining waves upon a' lonely beach. 
That is the world. 

An all-sufficient world, 
And as it seems an undiscovered world, 
So very few the folk that come to look. 
Yet one has heard of towns; but they are far. 
The world is undiscovered, and the child 
Is undiscovered that with stealthy joy 
Goes gathering like a bee who in dark cells 
Hideth sweet food to live on in the cold. 
What matters to the child? — it matters not 
More than it mattered to the moons of Mars, 
That they for ages undiscovered went 
Marked not of man, attendant on their king. 

A shallow line of sand curved to the cliff, 
There dwelt the fisherfolk, and there inland 
Some scattered cottagers in thrift and calm. 
Their talk full oft was of old days, — for here 
Was once a fosse, and by this rock-hewn path 
Our wild fore-elders as 'tis said would come 



7 02 "IF I FORGET THEE " 

To gather jetsam from some Viking wreck, 
Like a sea-beast wide-breasted (her snake head 
Eeared up as staring while she rocked ashore) 
That split, and all her ribs were on their fires 
The red whereof at their wives' throats made bright 
Gold gauds which from the weed they picked ere yet 
The tide had turned. 

"Many," meth ought, "and rich 
They must have been, so long their chronicle. 
Perhaps the world was fuller then of folk, 
For ships at sea are few that near us now." 

Yet sometimes when the clouds were torn to rags, 
Flying black before a gale, we saw one rock 
In the offing, and the mariner folk would cry, 
" Look how she labors ; those aboard may hear 
Her timbers creak e'en as she'd break her heart." 

'Twas then the gray gulls blown ashore would light 
In flocks, and pace the lawn with flat cold feet. 

And so the world was sweet, and it was strange, 

Sweet as a bee-kiss to the crocus flower, 

Surprising, fresh, direct, but ever one. 

The laughter of glad music did not yet 

In its echo yearn, as hinting aught beyond, 

Nor pathos tremble at the edge of bliss 

Like a moon halo in a watery sky, 

Nor the sweet pain alike of love and fear 

In a world not comprehended touch the heart — 

The poetry of life was not yet born. 

'Twas a thing hidden yet that there be days 

When some are known to feel "God is about," 



11 IF I FORGET THEE " 703 

As if that morn more than another morn 
Virtue flowed forth from Him, the rolling world 
Swam in a soothed calm made resonant 
And vital, swam as in the lap of God 
Come down ; until she slept and had a dream 
(Because it was too much to bear awake), 
That all the air shook with the might of Him 
And whispered how she was the favorite world 
That day, and bade her drink His essence in. 

'Tis on such days that seers prophesy 
And poets sing, and many who are wise 
Find out for man's wellbeing hidden things 
Whereof the hint came in that Presence known 
Yet unknown. But a seer — what is he? 
A poet is a name of long ago. 

Men love the largeness of the field — the wild 
Quiet that soothes the moor. In other days 
They loved the shadow of the city wall, 
In its stone ramparts read their poetry; 
Safety and state, gold, and the arts of peace, 
Law-giving, leisure, knowledge, all were there. 

This to excuse a child's allegiance and 
A spirit's recurrence to the older way. 
Orphan' d, with aged guardians kind and true, 
Things came to pass not told before to me. 

Thus, we did journey once when eve was near. 
Through carriage windows I beheld the moors, 
Then, churches, hamlets cresting of low hills. 
The way was long, at last I, fall'n asleep, 



704 "IF I FORGET THEE " 

Awoke to hear a rattling 'neath the wheels 
And see the lamps alight. This was the town. 

Then a wide inn received us, and full soon 
Came supper, kisses, bed. 

The lamp without 
Shone in; the door was shut, and I alone. 
An ecstasy of exultation took 
My soul, for there were voices heard and steps, 
I was among so many, — none of them 
Knew I was come! 

I rose, with small bare feet, 
Across the carpet stole, a white-robed child, 
And through the window peered. Behold the town. 

There had been rain, the pavement glistened yet 
In a soft lamplight down the narrow street; 
The church was nigh at hand, a clear-toned clock 
Chimed slowly, open shops across the way 
Showed store of fruit, and store of bread, — and one 
Many caged birds. About were customers, 
I saw them bargain, and a rich high voice 
Was heard, — a woman sang, her little babe 
Slept 'neath her shawl, and by her side a boy 
Added wild notes and sweet to hers. 

Some passed 
Who gave her money. It was far from me 
To pity her, she was a part of that 
Admired town. E'en so within the shop 
A rosy girl, it may be ten years old, 
Quaint, grave. She helped her mother, deftly 

weighed 
The purple plums, black mulberries rich and ripe 



"IF I FORGET THEE " 705 

For boyish customers, and counted pence 
And dropped them in an apron that she wore. 
Methought a queen had ne'er so grand a lot, 
She knew it, she looked up at me, and smiled. 

But yet the song went on, and in a while 
The meaning came ; the town was not enough 
To satisfy that singer, for a sigh 
With her wild music came. What wanted she? 
Whate'er she wanted wanted all. how 
'Twas poignant, her rich voice; not like a bird's. 
Could she not dwell content and let them be, 
That they might take their pleasure in the town, 
For — no, she was not poor, witness the pence. 

I saw her boy and that small saleswoman; 
He wary, she with grave persuasive air, 
Till he came forth with filberts in his cap, 
And joined his mother, happy, triumphing. 

This was the town ; and if you ask what else, 
I say good sooth that it was poetry 
Because it was the all, and something more, — 
It was the life of man, it was the world 
That made addition to the watching heart, 
First conscious its own beating, first aware 
How, beating it kept time with all the race; 
Nay, 'twas a consciousness far down and dim 
Of a Great Father watching too. 

But lo! the rich lamenting voice again; 
She sang not for herself; it was a song 
For me, for I had seen the town and knew, 
Yearning I knew the town was not enough. 



7 o6 "IF I FORGET THEE " 

What more? To-day looks back on yesterday, 
Life's yesterday, the waiting time, the dawn, 
And reads a meaning into it, unknown 
When it was with us. 

It is always so. 
But when as ofttimes I remember me 
Of the warm wind that moved the beggar's hair, 
Of the wet pavement, and the lamps alit, 
I know it was not pity that made yearn 
My heart for her, and that same dimpled boy. 
How grand methought to be abroad so late, 
And barefoot dabble in the shining wet ; 
How fine to peer as other urchins did 
At those pent huddled doves they let not rest; 
No, it was almost envy. Ay, how sweet 
The clash of bells ; they rang to boast that far 
That cheerful street was from the cold sea-fog, 
From dark ploughed field and narrow lonesome lane. 
How sweet to hear the hum of voices kind, 
To see the coach come up with din of horn, 
Quick tramp of horses, mark the passers-by 
^eet one another, and go on. 

But now 
They closed the shops, the wild clear voice was still, 
The beggars moved away — where was their home? 
The coach which came from out dull darksome fells 
Into the light, passed to the dark again 
Like some old comet which knows well her way, 
Whirled to the sun that as her fateful loop 
She turns, forebodes the destined silences. 
Yes, it was gone; the clattering coach was gone, 
And those it bore I pitied even to tears, 
Because they must go forth, nor see the lights, 
Nor hear the chiming bells. 



NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. 707 

In after days, 
Remembering of the childish envy and 
The childish pity, it has cheered my heart 
To think e'en now pity and envy both 
It may be are misplaced, or needed not. 
Heaven may look down in pity on some sonl 
Half envied, or some wholly pitied smile, 
For that it hath to wait as it were an hour 
To see the lights that go not out by night, 
To walk the golden street and hear a song; 
Other-world poetry that is the all 
And something more. 



NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. 



White as white butterflies that each one dons 
Her face their wide white wings to shade withal, 

Many moon-daisies throng the water-spring, 
While couched in rising barley titlarks call, 

And bees alit upon their martagons 

Do hang a-murmuring, a-murmuring. 

They chide, it may be, alien tribes that flew 
And rifled their best blossom, counted on 
And dreamed on in the hive ere dangerous dew 
That clogs bee-wings had dried; but when out- 
shone 
Long shafts of gold (made all for them) of power 
To charm it away, those thieves had sucked the 
flower. 



7o3 NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. 

Now must they go ; a-murinuring they go, 
And little thrushes twitter in the nest ; 

The world is made for them, and even so 

The clouds are ; they have seen no stars, the breast 

Of their soft mother hid them all the night, 

Till her mate came to her in red dawn-light. 

Eggs scribbled over with strange writing, signs, 
Prophecies, and their meaning (for you see 

The yolk within) is life, 'neath yonder bines 
Lie among sedges ; on a hawthorn tree 

The slender lord and master perched hard by, 

Scolds at all comers if they step too nigh. 

And our small river makes encompassment 

Of half the mead and holm : yon lime trees grow 

All heeling over to it, diligent 

To cast green doubles of themselves below, 

But shafts of sunshine reach its shallow floor 

And warm the yellow sand it ripples o'er. 

Ripples and ripples to a pool it made 

Turning. The cows are there, one creamy white — 
She should be painted with no touch of shade 

If any list to limn her — she the light 
Above, about her, treads out circles wide 
And sparkling water flashes from her side. 

The clouds have all retired to so great height 
As earth could have no dealing with them more, 

As they were lost, for all her drawing and might, 
And must be left behind; but down the shore 

Lie lovelier clouds in ranks of lace-work frail, 

Wild parsley with a myriad florets pale, 



NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. 709 

Another milky-way, more intricate 

And multitudinous, with every star 
Perfect. Long changeful sunbeams undulate 

Amid the stems where sparklike creatures are 
That hover and hum for gladness, then the last 
Tree rears her graceful head, the shade is passed. 

And idle fish in warm wellbeing lie 

Each with his shadow under, while at ease 

As clouds that keep their shape the darting fry 
Turn and are gone in company; o'er these 

Strangers to them, strangers to us, from holes 

Scooped in the bank peer out shy water-voles. 

Here, take for life and fly with innocent feet 
The brown-eyed fawns, from moving shadows 
clear ; 

There, down the lane with multitudinous bleat 
Plaining on shepherd lads a flock draws near; 

A mild lamenting fills the morning air, 

" Why to yon upland fold must we needs fare?" 

These might be fabulous creatures every one, 

And this their world might be some other sphere 

We had but heard of, for all said or done 

To know of them, — of what this many a year 

They may have thought of man, or of his sway, 

Or even if they have a God and pray. 

The sweetest river bank can never more 

Home to its source tempt back the lapsed stream, 

Nor memory reach the ante-natal shore, 
Nor one awake behold a sleeper's dream, 



710 NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. 

Not easier 'twere that unbridged chasm to walk, 
And share the strange lore of their wordless talk. 

Like to a poet voice, remote from ken, 
That unregarded sings and undesired, 

Like to a star unnamed by lips of men, 

That faints at dawn in saffron light retired, 

Like to an echo in some desert deep 

From age to age unwakeued from its sleep, — 

So falls unmarked that other world's great song, 
And lapsing wastes without interpreter. 

Slave world! not man's to raise, yet man's to 
wrong, 
He cannot to a loftier place prefer, 

But he can, — all its earlier rights forgot, 

Reign reckless if its nations rue their lot; 

If they can sin or feel life's wear and fret, 
An men had loved them better, it may be 

We had discovered. But who e'er did yet, 
After the sage saints in their clemency, 

Ponder in hope they had a heaven to win, 

Or make a prayer with a dove's name therein? 

As grave Augustine pleading in his day, 
" Have pity, Lord, upon the unfledged bird, 

Lest such as pass do trample it in the way, 
Not marking, or not minding; give the word, 

bid an angel in the nest again 

To place it, lest the mother's love be vain. 

And let it live, Lord God, till it can fly." 

This man dwelt yearning, fain to guess, to spell 



NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. 711 

The parable; all work of God Most High 

Took to his man's heart. Surely this was well; 
To love is more than to be loved, by leave 
Of Heaven, to give is more than to receive. 

He made it so that said it. As for us 

Strange is their case towards us, for they give 

And we receive. Made martyrs ever thus 
In deed but not in will, for us they live, 

For us they die, we quench their little day, 

Remaining blameless, and they pass away. 

The world is better served than it is ruled, 
And not alone of them, forever more 

Euleth the man, the woman serveth fooled 
Full oft of love, not knowing his yoke is sore. 

Life's greatest Son naught from life's measure 
swerved, 

He was among us "as a man that served." 

Have they another life, and was it won 
In the sore travail of another death, 

Which loosed the manacles from our race undone 
And plucked the pang from dying ? If this 
breath 

Be not their all, reproach no more debarred, 

"0 unkind lords, you made our bondage hard," 

May be their plaint when we shall meet again 
And make our peace with them; the sea of life 

Find flowing, full, nor aught or lost or vain. 

Shall the vague hint whereof all thought is rife, 

The sweet pathetic guess indeed come true, 

And things restored reach that great residue? 



712 NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. 

Shall we behold fair flights of phantom doves, 
Shall furred creatures couch in moly flowers, 

Swan souls the rivers oar with their world-loves, 
In difference welcome as these souls of ours? 

Yet soul of man from soul of man far more 

May differ, even as thought did heretofore 

That ranged and varied on th' undying gleam: 
From a pure breath of God aspiring, high, 

Serving and reigning, to the tender dream, 
The winged Psyche and her butterfly — 

From thrones and powers, to — fresh from death 
alarms 

Child spirits entering in an angel's arms. 

Why must we think, begun in paradise, 

That their long line, cut off with severance fell, 

Shall end in nothingness — the sacrifice 
Of their long service in a passing knell? 

Could man be wholly blest if not to say 

" Forgive " — nor make amends for ever and aye? 

Waste, waste on earth, and waste of God afar. 

Celestial flotsam, blazing spars on high, 
Drifts in the meteor month from some wrecked star, 

Strew oft the unwrinkled ocean of the sky, 
And pass no more accounted of than be 
Long dulses limp that stripe a mundane sea. 

The sun his kingdom fills with light, but all 

Save where it strikes some planet and her moons 

Across cold chartless gulfs ordained to fall, 

Void antres, reckoneth no man's nights or noons, 



PER D IT A. 713 

But feeling forth as for some outmost shore, 
Faints in the blank of doom, and is no more. 

God scattereth His abundance as forgot, 

And what then doth He gather? If we know, 

'Tis that One told us it was life. "For not 
A sparrow," quoth He, uttering long ago 

The strangest words that e'er took earthly sound, 

"Without your Father falleth to the ground." 



PEEDITA. 



u I go beyond the commandment." So be it. Then 

mine be the blame. 
The loss, the lack, the yearning, till life's last sand 

be run, — 
I go beyond the commandment, yet Honor stands 

fast with her claim, 
And what I have rued I shall rue j for what I have 

done — I have done. 

Hush! hush! for what of the future; you cannot 

the base exalt, 
There is no bridging a chasm over, that yawns with 

so sheer incline; 
I will not any sweet daughter's cheek should pale 

for this mother's fault, 
Nor son take leave to lower his life a-thinking on 

mine. 



714 PERD/TA. 



" Will I tell you all?" So! this, e'en tins, will I 

do for your great love's sake; 
Think what it costs. " Then let there be silence — 

silence you'll count consent." 
No, and no, and forever no : rather to cross and to 

break, 
And to lower your passion I speak — that other it 

was I meant. 

That other I meant (but I know not how) to speak 

of, nor April days, 
Nor a man's sweet voice that pleaded — (but I 

promised this) — 
He never talked of marriage, never; I grant him 

that praise; 
And he bent his stately head, and I lost, and he 

won with a kiss. 

He led me away — 0, how poignant sweet the night- 
ingale's note that noon — 

I beheld, and each crisped spire of grass to him for 
my sake was fair, 

And warm winds nattered my soul, blowing straight 
from the soul of June, 

And a lovely lie was spread on the fields, but the 
blue was bare. 

When I looked up, he said: "Love, fair love! O 

rather look in these eyes 
With thine far sweeter than eyes of Eve when she 

stepped the valley unshod " — 
For One might be looking through it, he thought, 

and he would not in any wise 
I should mark it open, limitless, empty, bare 'neath 

the gaze of God. 



PERDITA. 715 



Ah me! I was happy — yes, I was; 'tis fit you 

should know it all,. 
While love was warm and tender and yearning, the 

rough winds troubled me not; 
I heard them moan without in the forest; heard the 

chill rains fall — 
But I thought my place was sheltered with him — 

I forgot, I forgot. 

After came news of a wife ; I think he was glad I 

should know, 
To stay my pleading, " take me to church and give 

me my ring; " 
"You should have spoken before," he had sighed, 

when I prayed him so, 
For his heart was sick for himself and me, and this 

bitter thing. 

But my dream was over me still, — I was half 

beguiled, 
And he in his kindness left me seldom, seldom, 

alone, 
And yet love waxed cold, and I saw the face of my 

little child, 
And then at the last I knew what I was, and what 

I had done. 

" You will give me the name of wife. You will give 

me a ring." — peace! 
You are not let to ruin your life because I ruined 

mine; 
You will go to your people at home. There will be 

rest and release; 
The bitter now will be sweet full soon — ay, and 

denial divine. 



716 PER D IT A 



But spare me the ending. I did not wait to be 

quite cast away; 
I left him asleep, and the bare sun rising shone red 

on my gown. 
There was dust in the lane, I remember; prints of 

feet in it lay, 
And honeysuckle trailed in the path that led on to 

the down. 

I was going nowhere — I wandered up, then turned 

and dared to look back, 
Where low in the valley he careless and quiet — 

quiet and careless slept. 
" Did I love him yet ? " I loved him. Ay, my heart 

on the upland track 
Cried to him, sighed to him out by the wheat, as I 

walked, and I wept. 

I knew of another alas, one that had been in my 

place, 
Her little ones, she forsaken, were almost in need; 
I went to her, and carried my babe, then all in my 

satins and lace 
I sank at the step of her desolate door, a mourner 

indeed. 

I cried, " 'Tis the way of the world, would I had 

never been born ! " 
"Ay, 'tis the way of the world, but have you no 

sense to see 
For all the way of the world," she answers and 

laughs me to scorn, 
" The world is made the world that it is by fools 

like you, like me?" 



PER D IT A. 7*7 

Eight hard upon me, hard on herself, and cold as 

the cold stone, 
But she took me in ; and while I lay sick I knew I 

was lost, 
Lost with the man I loved, or lost without him, 

making my moan 
Blighted and rent of the bitter frost, wrecked, 

tempest tossed, lost, lost! 

How am I fallen: — we that might make of the 

world what we would, 
Some of us sink in deep waters. Ah! "you would 

raise me again ? " 
No, true heart, —you cannot, you cannot, and all 

in my soul that is good 
Cries out against such a wrong. Let be, your quest 

is forever in vain. 

For I feel with another heart, I think with another 

mind, 
I have worsened life, I have wronged the world, I 

have lowered the light ; 
But as for him, his words and his ways were after 

his kind, 
He did but spoil where he could, and waste where 

he might. 

For he was let to do it; I let him and left his soul 

To walk mid the ruins he made of home in remem- 
brance of love's despairs, 

Despairs that harden the hearts of men and shadow 
their heads with dole, 

And woman's fault, though never on earth, may be 
healed,— but what of theirs? 



718 PERDITA. 



'Twas fit you should hear it all — What, tears? 

they comfort me ; now you will go, 
Nor wrong your life for the naught you call " a pair 

of beautiful eyes, " 
"I will not say I love you." Truly I will not, no. 

"■Will I pity you f" 
Ay, but the pang will be short, you shall wake and 

be wise. 

" Shall we meet ? " We shall meet on the other side, 

but not before. 
I shall be pure and fair, I shall hear the sound of 

THE NAME, 

And see the form of His face. You too will walk 

on that shore, 
In the garden of the Lord God, where neither is 

sorrow nor shame. 

Farewell, I shall bide alone, for God took my one 

white lamb, 
I work for such as she was, and I will the while I 

last, 
But there's no beginning again, ever I am what I 

am, 
And nothing, nothing, nothing, can do away with 

the past. 



LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 7*9 



LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 

(First of a series.) 

a parson's letter to a young poet. 

They said "Too late, too late, the work is done; 

Great Homer sang of glory and strong men 

And that fair Greek whose fault all these long years 

Wins no f orgetfulness nor ever can ; 

For yet cold eyes upon her frailty bend, 

For yet the world waits in the victor's tent 

Daily, and sees an old man honorable, 

His white head bowed, surprise to passionate tears 

Awestruck Achilles; sighing, 'I have endured 

The like whereof no soul hath yet endured, 

To kiss the hand of him that slew my son.' ' 

They said: "We, rich by him, are rich by more; 

One ^Eschylus found watchfires on a hill 

That lit Old Night's three daughters to their work; 

When the forlorn Fate leaned to their red light 

And sat a-spinning, to her feet he came 

And marked her till she span off all her thread. 

0, it is late, good sooth, to cry for more : 
"The work once done, well done," they said, "for- 
bear ! 
A Tuscan afterward discovered steps 
Over the line of life in its mid-way ; 
He climbed the wall of Heaven, beheld his love 
Safe at her singing, and he left his foes 
In a vale of shadow weltering, unassoiled 
Immortal sufferers henceforth in both worlds. 



72o LETTERS ON LITE AND THE MORNING. 



"Who may inherit next or who shall match 

The Swan of Avon and go float with him 

Down the long river of life aneath a sun 

jSTot veiled, and high at noon? — the river of life 

That as itj ran reflected all its lapse 

And rippling on the plumage of his breast? 

"Thou hast them, heed them, for thy poets now, 
Albeit of tongue full sweet and majesty 
Like even to theirs, are fallen on evil days, 
Are wronged by thee of life, wronged of the world. 
Look back they must and show thee thy fair past, 
Or, choosing thy to-day, they may but chant 
As they behold. 

The mother-glowworm broods 
Upon her young, fast-folded in the egg 
And long before they come to life they shine — 
The mother-age broods on her shining thought 
That liveth, but whose life is hid. He comes 
Her poet son, and lo you, he can see 
The shining, and he takes it to his breast 
And fashions for it wings that it may fly 
And show its sweet light in the dusky world. 

"Mother, Mother of our dusk to-day, 

What hast thou lived for bards to sing of thee? 

Lapsed water cannot flow above its source ; 

' The kid must browse,' thej said, 'zvhere she is tied.'' " 

Son of to-day, rise up, and answer them. 
What ! wilt thou let thy mother sit ashamed 
And crownless? — Set the crown on her fair head: 
£>he waited for thy birth, she cries to thee 



LETTERS ON LITE AND THE MORNING. 721 

"Thou art the man." He that hath ears to hear, 
To him the mother cries "Thou art the man." 

She murmurs, for thy mother's voice is low — 
" Methought the men of war were even as gods, 
The old men of the ages. Now mine eyes 
Retrieve the truth from ruined city walls 
That buried it; from carved and curious homes 
Full of rich garments and all goodly spoil, 
Where having burned, battered, and wasted them, 
They flung it. Give us, give us better gods 
Than these that drink with blood upon their hands, 
For I repent me that I worshipped them. 
O that there might be yet a going up! 
O to forget — and to begin again ! " 

Is not thy mother's rede at one with theirs 

Who cry "The work is done"? What though to 

thee, 
Thee only, should the utterance shape itself 
" to forget, and to begin again, " 
Only of thee be heard as that keen cry 
Rending its way from some distracted heart 
That yields it and so breaks? Yet list the cry 
Begin for her again, and learn to sing; 
But first, in all thy learning learn to be. 
Is life a field? then plough it up — re-sow 
With worthier seed — Is life a ship? heed 
The southing of thy stars — Is life a breath? 
Breathe deeper, draw life up from hour to hour, 
Aye, from the deepest deep in thy deep soul. 

It may be God's first work is but to breathe 
And fill the abysm with drifts of shining air 



722 LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 

That slowly, slowly curdle into worlds. 

A little space is measured out to us 

Of His long leisure; breathe and grow therein, 

For life, alas ! is short, and " when ice die 

It is not for a little ivhile." 

They said, 
"The work is done," and is it therefore done? 
Speak rather to thy mother thus : " All-fair, 
Lady of ages, beautiful To-day 
And sorrowful To-day, thy children set 
The crown of sorrow on their heads, their loss 
Is like to be the loss of all : we hear 
Lamenting, as of some that mourn in vain 
Loss of high leadership, but where is he 
That shall be great enough to lead thee now? 

Where is thy Poet? thou hast wanted him. 
Where? Thou hast wakened as a child in the night 
And found thyself alone. The stars have set, 
There is great darkness, and the dark is void 
Of music. Who shall set thy life afresh 
And sing thee thy new songs? Whom wilt thou 

love 
And lean on to break silence worthily — 
Discern the beauty in thy goings — feel 
The glory of thy yearning, — thy self -scorn 
Flatter to dim oblivion with a smile — 
Own thy great want, that knew not its great name? 
O who shall make to thee mighty amends 
For thy lost childhood, joining two in one, 
Thyself and Him? Behold Him, He is near: 
God is thy Poet now. 

A King sang once 



LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 723 

Long years ago ' My soul is athirst for God, 
Yea for the living God ' — thy thirst and his 
Are one. It is thy Poet whom thy hands 
Grope for, not knowing. Life is not enough, 
Nor love, nor learning, — Death is not enough 
Even to them, happy, who forecast new life; 
But give us now and satisfy us now, 
Give us now, now, to live in the life of God, 
Give us now, now, to be at one with Him." 

Would I had words — I have not words for her, 
Only for thee ; and thus I tell them out : 
For every man the world is made afresh; 
To God both it and he are young. There are 
Who call upon Him night, and morn, and night, 
"Where is the kingdom? Give it us to-day. 
We would be here with God, not there with God. 
Make Thine abode with us, great Wayfarer, 
And let our souls sink deeper into Thee " — 
There are who send but yearnings forth, in quest 
They know not why, of good they know not what. 

The unknown life, and strange its stirring is. 
The babe knows naught of life, yet clothed in it 
And yearning only for its mother's breast 
Feeds thus the unheeded thing — and as for thee, 
That life thou hast is hidden from thine eyes, 
And when it yearns, thou, knowing not for what, 
Wouldst fain appease it with one grand, deep joy, 
One draught of passionate peace — but wilt thou 

know 
The other name of joy, the better name 
Of peace? It is thy Father's name. Thy life 



724 LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 

Yearns to its Source. The spirit thirsts for God, 
Even the living God. 

But "No," thou sayest, 
" My heart is all in ruins with pain, my feet 
Tread a dry desert where there is no way 
Nor water. I look back, and deep through time 
The old words come but faintly up the track 
Trod by the sons of men. The man He sent, 
The Prince of life, methinks I could have loved 
If I had looked once in His deep man's eyes. 
But long ago He died, and long ago 
Is gone." 

He is not dead, He cannot go. 
Men's faith at first was like a mastering stream, 
Like Jordan " the descender " leaping down 
Pure from his snow; and warmed of tropic heat 
Hiding himself in verdure: then at last 
In a Dead Sea absorbed as faith of doubt. 
But yet the snow lies thick on Hermon's breast 
And daily at his source the stream is born. 
Go up — go mark the whiteness of the snow — 
Thy faith is not thy Saviour, not thy God, 
Though faith waste fruitless down a desert old. 
The living God is new, and He is near. 

What need to look behind thee and to sigh? 
When God left speaking He went on before 
To draw men after, following up and on; 
And thy heart fails because thy feet are slow; 
Thou think' st of Him as one that will not wait. 
A Father and not wait ! — He waited long 
For us, and yet perchance He thinks not long 
And will not count the time. There are no dates 
In His fine leisure. 



LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 725 

Speak then as a son : 
" Father, I come to satisfy Thy love 
With mine, for I had held Thee as remote, 
The background of the stars — Time's yesterday — 
Illimitable Absence. Now my heart 
Communes, methinks, with somewhat teaching me 
Thou art the Great To-day. God, is it so? 
Then for all love that was, I thank Thee, God, 
It is and yet shall bide. And I have part 
In all, for in Thine image I was made, 
To Thee my spirit yearns, as Thou to mine. 
If aught be stamped of Thy Divine on me, 
And man be God-like, God is like to man. 

" Dear and dread Lord, I have not found it hard 
To fear Thee, though Thy love in visible form 
Bled 'neatb a thorny crown — but since indeed, 
For kindred's sake and likeness, Thou dost thirst 
To draw men nigh, and make them one with Thee, 
My soul shall answer ' Thou art what I want : 
I am athirst for God, the living God.' " 

Then straightway flashes up athwart the words : 
" And if I be a son I am very far 
From my great Father's house; I am not clean. 
I have not always willed it should be so, 
And the gold of life is rusted with my tears." 

It is enough. He never said to men, 

" Seek ye My face in vain." And have they 

sought — 
Beautiful children, well-beloved sons, 
Opening wide eyes to ache among the moons 



726 LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 

All night, and sighing because star multitudes 

Fainted away as to a glittering haze, 

And sparkled here and there like silver wings, 

Confounding them with nameless, numberless 

Unbearable, fine flocks? It is not well 

For them, for thee. Hast thou gone forth so far 

To the unimaginable steeps on high 

Trembling and seeking God? Yet now come home, 

Cry, cry to Him : " I cannot search Thee out, 

But Thou and I must meet. O come, come down, 

Come." And that cry shall have the mastery. 

Ay, He shall come in truth to visit thee, 

And thou shalt mourn to Him, " Unclean, unclean," 

But never more "I will to have it so." 

From henceforth thou shalt learn that there is love 

To long for, pureness to desire, a mount 

Of consecration it were good to scale. 

Look you, it is to-day as at the first. 
When Adam first was 'ware his new-made eyes 
And opened them, behold the light! And breath 
Of God was misting yet about his mouth, 
Whereof they had made his soul. Then he looked 

forth 
And was a part of light; also he saw 
Beautiful life, and it could move. But Eve — 
Eve was the child of midnight and of sleep. 
Lo, in the dark God led her to his side ; 
It may be in the dark she heard him breathe 
Before God woke him. And she knew not light, 
Nor life but as a voice that left his lips, 
A warmth that clasped her ; but the stars were out, 
And she with wide child-eyes gazed up at them. 



LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 727 

Haply she thought that always it was night; 

Haply he, whispering to her in that reach 

Of beauteous darkness, gave her unworn heart 

A rumor of the dawn, and wakened it 

To a trembling, and a wonder, and want 

Kin to his own ; and as lie longed to gaze 

On his new fate, the gracious mystery 

His wife, she may have longed, and felt not why, 

After the light that never she had known. 

So doth each age walk in the light beheld, 
Nor think on light, if it be light or no; 
Then comes the night to it, and in the night 
Eve. 

The God-given, the most beautiful 
Eve. 

And she is not seen for darkness' sake; 
Yet, when she makes her gracious presence felt, 
The age perceives how dark it is, and fain, 
Fain would have daylight, fain would see her well, 
A beauty half revealed, a helpmeet sent 
To draw the soul away from valley clods; 
Made from itself, yet now a better self — 
Soul in the soulless, arrow tipped with fire 
Let down into a careless breast; a pang 
Sweeter than healing that cries out with it 
For light all light, and is beheld at length — 
The morning dawns. 

Were not we born to light? 
Ay, and we saw the men and women as saints 
Walk in a garden. All our thoughts were fair; 
Our simple hearts, as dovecotes full of doves, 
Made home and nests for them. They fluttered 
forth, 



728 LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 



And flocks of them flew white about the world. 
And dreams were like to ships that floated ns 
Ear out on silent floods, apart from earth, 
From life — so far that we could see their lights 
In heaven — and hear the everlasting tide, 
All dappled with that fair reflected gold, 
Wash up against the city wall, and sob 
At the dark bows of vessels that drew on 
Heavily freighted with departed souls 
To whom did spirits sing ; but on that song 
Might none, albeit the meaning was right plain, 
Impose the harsh captivity of words. 

Afterward waking, sweet was early air, 
Full excellent was morning : whether deep 
The snow lay keenly white, and shrouds of hail 
Blurred the gray breaker on a long foreshore, 
And swarming plover ran, and wild white mews 
And sea-pies printed with a thousand feet 
The fallen whiteness, making shrill the storm ; 
Or whether, soothed of sunshine, throbbed and 

hummed 
The mill atween its bowering maple trees, 
And churned the leaping beck that reared, and 

urged 
A diamond-dripping wheel. 

The happy find 
Equality of beauty everywhere 
To feed on. All of shade and sheen is theirs, 
All the strange fashions and the fair wise ways 
Of lives beneath man's own. He breathes delight 
Whose soul is fresh, whose feet are wet with dew 
And the melted mist of morning, when at watch 



LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 729 

Sunk deep in fern he marks the stealthy roe, 

Silent as sleep or shadow, cross the glade, 

Or dart athwart his view as August stars 

Shoot and are out — while gracefully pace on 

The wild-eyed harts to their traditional tree 

To clear the velvet from their budded horns. 

There is no want, both God and life are kind; 

It is enough to hear, it is enough 

To see; the pale wide barley-field they love, 

And its weird beanty, and the pale wide moon 

That lowering seems to lurk between the sheaves. 

So in the rustic hamlet at high noon 

The white owl sailing drowsed and deaf with sleep 

To hide her head in turrets browned of moss 

That is the rust of time. Ay so the pinks 

And mountain grass marked on a sharp sea-cliff 

While far below the northern diver feeds; 

She having ended settling while she sits, 

As vessels water-logged that sink at sea 

And quietly into the deep go down. 

It is enough to wake, it is enough 

To sleep : — With God and time he leaves the rest. 

But on a day death on the doorstep sits 

Waiting, or like a veiled woman walks 

Dogging his footsteps, or athwart his path 

The splendid passion-flower love unfolds 

Buds full of sorrow, not ordained to know 

Appeasement through the answer of a sigh, 

The kiss of pity with denial given, 

The crown and blossom of accomplishment. 

Or haply comes the snake with subtlety, 

And tempts him with an apple to know all. 



730 LETTERS OX LIFE AMD THE MORNING. 

B . . — Shut the gate : the story tells itself 

Over and over; Eden must be lost 

If after it be won. He stands at fault. 

Not knowing at all how this should be — he feels 

The great bare barrenness o s the outside world. 

He thinks on Time and what it has to say; 

He thinks on God. but God has changed His hand, 

Sitting afar. And as the moon draws on 

To cover the day-king in his eclipse. 

And thin the last fine sickle of light, till all 

Be gone, so fares it with his darkened souL 

The dark, but not Orion sparkling there 

TVith his best stars; the dark, but not yet Eve. 

And now the wellsprings of sweet natural joy 

Lie, as the Genie sealed of Solomon 

Fast prisoned in his heart; he hath not learned 

The spell whereby to loose and set them forth, 

1 all the glad delights that boyhood loved 
Smell at Oblivion's poppy, and lie still. 

All ! they must sleep — a The mill can grind no 

more 
TVith water that hath passed." Let it run on. 
For he hath caught a whisper in the night ; 

old inheritance in darkness given, 
The world, is widened, warmed, it is alive, 

t j his beating heart and bids it wake, 
Opens the door to youth, and bids it forth, 
Exultant for expansion and release, 
And bent to satisfy the mighty wish, 
Comfort and satisfy the might}' wish, 
L:ir of his life, the soul's immortal child 
That is to him as Eve. 



LETTERS ON LIFE AXD THE MORNING. 731 

He cannot win, 
Xor earn, nor see, nor hear, nor comprehend, 
AYith all the watch, tender, impetuous, 
That wastes him, this, whereof no less he feels 
Infinite things; but yet the night is full 
Of air-beats and of heart-beats for her sake. 
Eve the aspirer, give her what she wants, 
Or wherefore was he born? 

he was born 
To wish — then turn away : — to wish again 
And half forget his wish for earthlier joy ; 
He draws the net to land that brings red gold; 
His dreams among the meshes tangled lie, 
And learning hath him at her feet; — and love, 
The sea-born creature fresh from her sea foam, 
Touches the ruddiest veins in his young heart, 
flakes it to sob in him and sigh in him, 
Bestless, repelled, dying, alive and keen, 
Fainting away for the remorseless all 
Gone by, gone up, or sweetly gone before, 
But never in his arms. Then pity comes, 
Knocks at his breast, it may be. and comes in, 
flakes a wide wound that haply will not heal, 
But bleeds for poverty, and crime, and pain, 
Till for the dear kin's sake he grandly dares 
Or wastes him, with a wise improvidence ; 
But who can stir the weighty world; or who 
Can drink a sea of tears? 

love, and life, 
O world, and can it be that this is all? 
Leave him to tread expectance underfoot; 
Let him alone to tame down his great hope 
Before it breaks his heart: " Give me mv share 



732 LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 

That I foresaw, my place, my draught of life. 
This that I bear, what is it? — me no less 
It binds, I cannot disenslave my soul." 

There is but halting for the wearied foot. 
The better way is hidden ; faith hath failed — 
One stronger far than reason mastered her. 
It is not reason makes faith hard, but life. 
The husks of his dead creed, downtrod and dry, 
Are powerless now as some dishonored spell, 
Some aged Pythia in her priestly clothes, 
Some widow'd witch divining by the dead. 

Or if he keeps one shrine undesecrate 

And go to it from time to time with tears, 

What lies there? A dead Christ enswathed and 

cold, 
A Christ that did not rise. The linen cloth 
Is wrapped about His head, He lies embalmed 
With myrrh and spices in His sepulchre, 
The love of God that daily dies ; — to them 
That trust it the One Life, the all that lives. 

O mother Eve, who wert beguiled of old, 
Thy blood is in thy children, thou art yet 
Their fate and copy; with thy milk they drew 
The immortal want of morning ; but thy day 
Dawned and was over, and thy children know 
Contentment never, nor continuance long. 
For even thus it is with them : the day 
Waxeth, to wane anon, and a long night 
Leaves the dark heart unsatisfied with stars. 

A soul in want and restless and bereft 

To whom all life hath lied, shall it too lie? 



LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 733 

Saying, " I yield Thee thanks, most mighty God, 
Thou hast been pleased to make me thus and thus 
I do submit me to Thy sovereign will 
That I full oft should hunger and not have, 
And vainly yearn after the perfect good, 
Gladness and peace " ? 

No, rather dare think thus : 
" Ere chaos first had being, earth, or time, 
My Likeness was apparent in high heaven, 
Divine and manlike, and his dwelling place 
Was the bosom of the Father. By His hands 
Were the worlds made and filled with diverse 

growths 
And ordered lives. Then afterward they said, 
Taking strange counsel, as if he who worked 
Hitherto should not henceforth work alone, 
'Let us make man; ' and God did look upon 
That Divine Word which was the form of God, 
And it became a thought before the event. 
There they foresaw my face, forehearcl my speech, 
God-like, God-loved, God-loving, God-derived. 

" And I was in a garden, and I fell 
Through envy of God's evil son, but Love 
Would not be robbed of me forever — Love 
For my sake passed into humanity, 
And there for my first Father won me home. 
How should I rest then? I have not gone home; 
I feed on husks, and they given grudgingly, 
"While my great Father — Father — my God, 
What shall I do?" 

Ay, I will dare think thus : 
" I cannot rest because He doth not rest 



734 LETTERS ON LIFE AXD THE MORX/XG. 

In whom I have my being-. This is God — 
My soul is conscious of His wondrous wish, 
And my heart's hunger doth but answer His 
"Whose thought has met with mine. 

I have not all; 
He moves me thus to take of Him what lacks. 
My want is God's desire to give, — He yearns 
To add Himself to life and so for aye 
Make it enough." 

A thought by night, a wish 
After the morning, and behold it dawns 
Pathetic in a still solemnity, 
And mighty words are said for him once more, 
" Let there be light." Great heaven and earth have 

heard, 
And God comes down to him, and Christ doth rise. 



NOTES. 



"The Dreams that Came True." 
Page 199. 
JThis story I first wrote in prose, and it was published some years 
ago. 

" A Story or Doom." 

Page 271. 
The name of the patriarch's wife is Intended to be pronounced 
Ni«h-loi-ya. 

Of the three sons of Noah — Shem, Ham, and Japhet — I have called 
Japhet the youngest (because he is always named last), and have 
supposed that, in the genealogies where he is called "Japhet the 
tlder," he may have received the epithet because by that time there 
were younger Japhets 

Page 324. 

The quivering butterflies in companies, 
That slowly crept adown the sandy marge, 
Like living crocus beds. 

This beautiful comparison is taken from " The Naturalist on the 
River Amazon." " Vast numbers of orange-colored butterflies con- 
gregated on the moist sands. They assembled in densely-packed 
masses, sometimes two or three yards in circumference, their wings 
all held in an upright position, so that the sands looked as though 
variegated with beds of crocuses." 

" Gladys and her Island." 
Page 336. 

The woman is Imagination; she is brooding over what she brought 
forth. 

The two purple peaks represent the domains of Poetry and of His- 
tory. 

Ths girl is Fancy. 

" WlNSTANLEY." 

Page 402. 

This ballad was intended to be one of a set, and was read to the 
children in the National Schools at Sherborne, Dorsetshire, in order to 
discover whether, if the actions of a hero were simply and plainlj 
narrated, English children would like to learn the verses, lxcording 
them by heart, as their forefathers did. 



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